


A Crown of Iron

by kitkatkaylie



Series: The Winter's Queen [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Can I write anything without fluff?, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Jon Snow Knows Something, Just a warning now, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Multi, Nearly everyone lives, Pining, Post - Red Wedding, Queen in the North, This series wont be Daenerys friendly, Wargs, direwolves, fluff all the way, little bit of a slowburn, the answer is no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-11-15 12:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 63,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20866328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Whilst with Tormund's raiding party Jon finds his little brothers, who would have known that such a simple change would have such far reaching consequences for the whole of Westeros?Brynden Tully is a good uncle, so when he receives a letter from the nephews he thought were dead he launches the recue mission they asked him to.An AU where family still counts for something in Westeros, where a queen is crowned, and where the pack survives.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so, I'm just warning everyone now that this work will not be particularly Daenerys friendly. if you don't think you can handle that then please don't read. 
> 
> I've blended book and show canon for this, and played around with the ages a little bit. Most of the characters are their book ages at the start so:  
Jon is 16, Sansa is 13, Arya is 10, Bran is 9 and Rickon is 4.

Jon had been hardly paying attention to the words exchanged between Orell and Tormund, he was too busy trying to remember why he was there. Trying to stop himself from snapping and releasing the old man, trying to stop himself from ruining months of work.

He tried to avoid all eye contact with the man, knowing that the look in his eyes would prompt Jon to act. He scanned the area instead, half hoping that men from the Watch would appear and stop this madness.

None appeared, but then a glimpse of something familiar and yet out of place. The tip of a tail behind an abandoned cart, a deep black tuft of fur.

It almost looked like Shaggydog’s tail, yet that couldn’t be real. Shaggydog was safe in Winterfell with Rickon and Bran. He wouldn’t be so far from the castle, in a place so unsafe for a child of four. It must have been a trick of the light, one caused by the stress of the situation.

But then movement caught his eye once more, this time near the entrance to the mill. No longer black fur though, but the cream of Summer, ear tips and tail sticking up from behind a half-broken crate. He startled as the cream ears were joined by a pair of black, it did appear to be Shaggy and Summer, no wolves were known to live in this area, and besides that colour was rare for the breed found in the Gift.

His jolt did not go unnoticed however, he would never be so lucky for it to have.

“What that crow?” Orell sneered, “Did’ya see something? Or are’ya just jumpin’ at shadows?”

All the attention turned on him, he could all but feel Ygritte’s eyes boring into the back of his neck.

“It was nothing,” He mumbled, “Thought I saw something but it was just a trick of the eye.”

Tormund looked at him with suspicion, “Might be worth checking out that building after all Orell, if you and the pretty crow have seen something near there.”

Orell cackled and his bird mirrored him with a caw. “I’d be happy to Tormund.”

He gathered two of his friends and took them into the mill, other than the frantic anting of the old man silence reigned on the group, until the air was split by savage howls and the yells of a child. The sounds of a struggle soon followed, and as Orell and his men exited the building Jon saw why.

Orell had four figures at sword point in front of him, one of the men had a child slung over his shoulders, the other was holding a squirming toddler.

The toddler was suddenly dropped, the man holding them shook their hand as blood dripped down their fingers. Tormund started to laugh at the sight of one of his warriors being defeated by a mere babe.

Jon dashed forwards, the drop had caused the boy’s hood to fall down, revealing a familiar shade of red hair.

“Jon!” The boy called, running towards him. The noise making the laughter of the wildling stop abruptly.

Jon scooped Rickon up in his arms and buried his face in the dirty but still baby soft hair.

“Rickon! What in Seven Hells are you doing up here?” He all but sobbed at the weight of his baby brother in his arms.

A hand suddenly clapped down on his shoulder. “Are yer gonna introduce us then Crow?” Tormund growled.

Jon’s head shot up and he turned to look the giant man in the eyes, dislodging the hand in the process, he had forgotten for a moment who exactly they were surrounded by. He pulled Rickon around his body so the babe was clinging to his back instead and raised his sword into a defensive position.

“Aye, this is my brother.”

He could see that his words had truly shocked the wildings, a soft tug to his hair distracted him for a moment.

“Jon, Bran isn’t moving.” Rickon attempted to whisper in his ear, managing instead to project his voice so everyone heard it.

Jon was torn between turning to face the man holding Bran and keeping an eye on Tormund and the others. His sword wavered slightly in his hand and he could feel the shivers from Rickon as the child was slowly but surely soaked through by the rain.

“Please,” He said, looking first into Tormund’s eyes and then Ygritte’s, “They’re just boys. Please.”

Ygritte slowly lowered her bow, and Tormund took a step back. At a gesture from him the others lowered their weapons slightly, although Jon saw Orell’s sword did not move.

“Rickon, sweetling, can you call Shaggy out for me please?” Jon asked, in a soft tone, “Ask him to come slowly because I’m going to place you on his back so I can take Bran.”

He could feel Rickon let go of his back with one hand to whistle for the direwolves to approach. Slowly the pair of direwolves padded out from where Bran had likely told them to stay hidden.

Jon approached them with no concern, despite the flinches from the wildlings around him at the sight of the mythical predators.

“Hey there Summer, Shaggy,” Jon said in a soothing voice, holding out a hand for the wolves to sniff. Up close he could see that Summer’s eyes had become the shade of Tully blue that all his siblings bar Arya had had. “It’s safe to come out now Bran. No one will hurt you while I’m here.”

The blue began to bleed out of Summer’s eyes, back into the shade of yellow they had been before. The boy Jon now recognised as Bran suddenly gasped and pushed himself up from the shoulder he was lying over.

Jon gently placed Rickon down on Shaggy’s back, “Now little one, if any fighting starts, I want you to run as fast as you can ok? I’ll come and find you afterwards when it’s safe.” He waited for Rickon to nod solemnly before moving over to Bran.

He felt all the eyes on him as he held out his arms, silently asking for Bran to be placed in them. A sharp nod from Tormund and he suddenly found himself with a heavy bundle placed in them.

Jon looked down into the blue eyes that had been closed the last time he saw this brother, “Hello there, Bran.”

He received a weak smile in response, but any further conversation was cut short by a shout from Ygritte.

“You!” She yelled, advancing towards the woman Jon didn’t know. “Why are you with these kneelers?”

Everyone startled at the viciousness of her tone, except for the woman she was approaching. She merely had a resigned look on her face, as if it was something she had been expecting, and held her hands up placatingly.

“Ygritte,” She started, only to be cut off by an arrow aimed at her face.

“You don’t get to say anything, you abandoned us all.” Ygritte yelled, uncaring of the stares she was gaining. Her voice suddenly softened and her arrow lowered, “I mourned you. I thought you were dead.”

The woman stepped forwards and reached out once more, “Ygritte, I- I’m sorry. We, we found my sister but her eyes were blue and we just. We ran. I wanted to come back but Lord Stark, he caught us. I was the only one who survived and well, the little lord, he took a shine to me after his mother left.”

Ygritte sneered at her suspiciously, “That doesn’t explain why yer here though. You and these little lordlings.”

“We’re here because someone we thought was our brother took over our home.” Bran spoke up, shifting in Jon’s grip and drawing the attention to himself.

Jon’s mind frantically turned over who Bran could possibly be talking about, and then it hit him like a boot to the face. He could feel himself pale as he whispered, “Theon? Theon of all people betrayed Robb?”

Bran nodded with a solemn look, “He killed Ser Rodrick and was going to kill us but Osha helped us escape.”

Jon had to lock his knees to prevent himself from falling, it was all getting to be too much.

“As touching as your reunion is Little Crow,” Tormund dragged Jon’s attention back to him, “Are you gonna introduce us to yer brothers and their companions then?”

“This is Prince Bran Stark, heir to the throne of the North, Prince Rickon Stark, and the large man is Hodor who worked in the stables at Winterfell. I do not know who the others are though.” Jon said, keeping a carful eye out to ensure that any attack prompted by his words would not come as a surprise.

“You didn’t tell us yer a prince Jon Snow.” Ygritte said with narrowed eyes.

“Why? Afraid it’d make you a princess Ygritte?” Someone called out before Jon could answer her.

“Shut the fuck up!” She yelled back, “Ain’t no princesses here but you.”

Bran looked up at Jon with slightly horrified eyes and Jon was reminded once ore just how young Bran was.

“That’s because I’m not.” Jon said, “I’m a bastard, not a prince.”

He heard a mutter about kneelers from somewhere but couldn’t place who it came from.

“He’d be a princess if he was anything you great lumps,” Tormund laughed, “He’s to pretty to be a prince. Now little prince, what are you doing heading towards the Wal instead of your kingly brother.”

Bran swallowed heavily and Jon squeezed him gently in an attempt at comfort as the boy began to speak.

“My other companions are Jojen and Meera Reed of Greywater Watch, and Osha from North of the Wall. We are travelling North of the Wall to find the Last Greenseer.”

Tormund looked between them all with an unreadable expression, “Your brothers and their companions can join us Little Crow. And when they want to continue their journey, I’ll send someone to accompany them.”

Jon sagged with relief, he had hardly dare hope that this would be the decision Tormund would come to, even amidst the protests of the others. He barely noticed as the old man that was the reason they at the mill in the first place was beheaded, his back was to the man as he handed Bran over to Hodor once more to be carried.

He was surprised though, when he was walking with Rickon clutched to his furs once more, that he felt no tinge of jealousy over the easy affection and playful teasing between Ygritte and Osha.

* * *

They had chosen to make camp among the ruins of a farmhouse, the low stones working to keep some of the wind off of them. The chores of setting up camp had been quickly split up, with only Bran and Rickon not being given any chores to do.

A fire had been quickly built and rabbits roasted over it, the hot meat something everyone was thankful for after the bitter cold of the day. Jon had had a brief moment of horror at the manners Rickon had displayed, had winced as though Lady Catelyn was there to witness and chastise them all for allowing his to behave that way.

He’d pulled Rickon into his arms again after they had eaten, unwilling to let his brothers be far away, not after the story they had told him. He knew Bran wouldn’t likely appreciate the babying he wanted to do, but Rickon would soak it up as much as he could.

There was a strange look in Tormund’s eyes, every time he glanced over at Jon, as though he was seeing him for the first time. Ygritte was giving equally strange looks, although hers were aimed at Osha, quick glances that turned away as soon as Osha glanced back.

“There might be another way,” Jon said slowly, lifting his head to meet Tormund’s gaze. “I’m going to need to write to my brother to tell him that Bran and Rickon are alright, that the _heirs to his throne_ are safe.”

He had deliberately emphasised Bran and Rickon’s true importance and titles, to remind the Free Folk who exactly he would be contacting. From the quieting of the other conversations around the fire, his emphasis had worked.

“When I’m writing to him, I could say that it was your people who helped to keep them safe. Could tell him of your plight. If his heirs, as well as the children of one of his bannermen, corroborate the story then he may be able to order the Watch to let you through the Wall.” Jon continued, absently bouncing a sleeping Rickon in his lap as he did so, drawing further attention to the boy. “There would be no bloodshed and you wouldn’t need to worry about being attacked by the Northern Lords.”

A thoughtful look overtook Tormund’s face, as Jon had hoped it would. The large wildling might appear to bluster his way through life but Jon knew a sharp intelligence existed beneath it all.

“And yer kingly brother would believe you Crow? And the babes as well? Wouldn’t dismiss it as some fairy story?” Tormund said slowly.

“You can’t be serious Tormund? Yer just gonna trust the Crow?” Orell growled, “He’ll write to his brother and next we know our heads are on his castle walls.”

“Shut it Orell,” Ygritte snapped from her place between Jon and Osha. “If Jon Snow’s brother means our people don’t die on the blade of a crow then that’s all the better.”

Shouts broke out around the fire as every wildling tried to have their say, except that is, for Tormund who just looked between Jon and his brothers with a heavy gaze.

Rickon shifted in Jon’s arms at the noise before blinking open his eyes angrily. His face screwed up and he let out the sharp wail of an exhausted child. The wail cut through the arguments, and caused all attention to turn back towards them, even as Jon tried to rock Rickon to sleep once more.

His attempts failed this time however, and Rickon’s wails merely got sharper and more heart wrenching. Some part of Jon knew that they were because Rickon finally felt safe once again, but that did nothing to lessen the impact of them.

Tormund stood with a great surge of movement and crossed the fire to stand before Jon. He held out his arms and, when Jon just looked at him, gruffly told him to place Rickon in them.

As soon as he had Rickon cradled to his chest, the great bulk of him making the babe look even smaller than he truly was, he began to sing in a low, mournful voice. Jon was shocked to recognise the song, it was one he had heard at Winterfell, one that Lady Catelyn had used to sing to her children, one he remembered wishing she would sing to him.

It sounded quite different in Tormund’s voice, but just as soothing. A sentiment that Rickon evidently shared, as is eyes began too droop once more and his cries petered out to be replaced by the soft snuffles of sleep.

“Now yer all will keep yer mouths shut, or I’ll shut them for you.” Tormund growled, in a surprisingly quiet voice. “Little Crow, what do you need to send the letter to your kingly brother? And can you guarantee our safety until you get a response?”

Jon thought carefully about his answer, “Bran can offer you his protection for crossing the wall, as the acting Lord Stark and a Prince of the North. Even though he no longer holds Winterfell, he can still offer you some level of protection. As for the supplies I need, the closest are at Castle Black. Nowhere else for leagues has trained ravens, except perhaps for Last Hearth but they are too far away to travel with our level of supplies.”

His words received a few suspicious mutters, but they were soon quelled by the glare Tormund and Ygritte levied at the others.

“We’ll keep heading to Castle Black then Little Crow. Now everyone, get some rest, same watch shifts as usual.” Tormund said, settling down to rest, with Rickon still cradled among his layers of furs.

* * *

Castle Black loomed ahead of their party, gloomy even in the afternoon sun, a sight Jon was glad of nevertheless. He’d had a disturbing dream, of a wolf crowned with arrows and a fat rat drinking from a bloodied goblet, he had woken poorly rested, but had hid it to put on a comforting face for his younger brothers. The sight of the castle might mean he would be able to rest for a few minutes.

Bran was on Hodor’s back once more, Rickon safely in Jon’s arms, and the Reeds walking beside them. They were going to enter the castle together, and then call for the Wildlings to join them once Bran had made his declaration of protection.

All movement stopped once they entered, the sight of them and the direwolves by their sides something that shocked even the most hardened ranger.

Not that there were many there, the courtyard was surprisingly empty, devoid of most of the fighting men of the watch. Recruits and the old men mostly, those who would be a liability in a fight.

It was with some horror that Jon realised that the ranging must still be underway, that the Lord Commander Mormont wasn’t there. That one of the people he had hoped to speak to wasn’t there.

He sent a prayer to the Old Gods and the New, praying that Maester Aemon was there, that the respected Maester was able to hear and record Bran’s words so they would be respected when the ranging returned.

“Jon?” A hoarse voice grabbed Jon’s attention and he was shocked to see Grenn, he had thought he was a part of the ranging. Had something happened?

“We need to see the Lord Commander and the Maester.” Bran announced in his clear boy’s voice, an unusual sound in a castle that so rarely saw children.

“And who might you be?” And old man, one Jon did not know the name of asked, spitting as he did so.

Bran held his head up high, the way Jn had told him to, “I am Brandon Stark, Prince of the North. My companions are my brother Prince Rickon Stark, and the Lord Jojen Reed, heir to Greywater Watch, and his sister the Lady Meera Reed. My brother, Jon Snow, discovered us while on a mission for Qhorin Halfhand and agreed to escort us the rest of the way.”

A stunned silence filled the air at Bran’s words, and then it burst into a bustle of movement as they were escorted inside to the Hall with its blazing fires. He let Rickon down once they were inside, to allow the toddler to lose some of his ever-abundant energy by rushing around with Shaggydog.

Jon was sent questioning looks by all the Watch, at his clothes, and his brother’s announcement. Many of them might have mocked him for his birth but it was evident none had really clocked just who exactly he was related to.

Maester Aemon joined them after not too long, heavily leaning on the arm of someone Jon had not expected to see again. He half rose at the sight of Sam before he remembered just what was happening and sat once more.

“It is good you have returned to us Jon Snow,” Maester Aemon began, once he was situated in a chair near the flames, “We had feared you lost beyond the Wall with the others. I would have your story later but first, I’m afraid I have some terrible news for you, and your brothers as well.”

Jon gathered Rickon up and moved to stand behind Bran comfortingly, he did not want to believe what he suspected the Maester was going to say.

“We received a Raven this morning, from Lord Frey at the Twins, King Robb Stark was murdered at the hands of the Freys and the Boltons at the wedding of Lord Tully.” The Maester said in a sorrowful tone, “At the same time, a number of the Northern forces were wiped out with numerous casualties, including the Lady Catelyn Stark.”

Jon felt frozen at the words, he had never expected Robb to die.

Rickon cried in his arms and burrowed his face into Jon’s chest, as though hoping to block out the words. Bran just sat there, a look of shock on his face and silent tears trickling down his cheeks.

“My king,” Meera said, moving to kneel before Bran.

It was as if her words broke a spell, Jon and Jojen knelt next, Sam did as well. Bran just looked over them with the tear still running down his cheeks that Jon had to stop himself from wiping away like he had done when Bran was Rickon’s age and Bran had scraped his knee.

“I don’t want to be king.” Bran whispered, heartbreak in his voice.

Jon abandoned all sense of propriety at that and rose so he could hug Bran, Rickon squirmed against him at the change in movement once more but settled between the two.

“No one will make you Bran. Not if you don’t want to be.” He vowed softly.

“But, but, Rickon’s too young, and you can’t break you vow and Arya’s missing and Sansa is trapped!” Bran blurted through his tears into Jon’s neck.

“And none of that’s unsolvable.” Jon soothed, “Who do you think would be best? Who would you want to abdicate to? Take a moment and really think about it.”

He kept holding onto Bran until his brother gently pushed him away.

“I… I guess Sansa would be best?” Bran said hesitantly, “She’s the oldest and everyone loves her and she was being taught how to be a queen. I overheard mother saying so once.”

His face crumpled up once again at the thought of his mother and Jon ran a soothing hand through his auburn curls.

“Then we’ll announce that you want Sansa to be queen.” Jon said, he turned to Maester Aemon with an idea freshly forming, “Maester, was there any news of the Blackfish in the raven you received? Was he on the list of casualties?”

At the maester’s shake of his head, and Sam’s confirmation that the Blackfish wasn’t among the list of those reported dead, Jon turned back to Bran.

“Here’s what we are going to do, we will send a letter to your uncle, asking him to rescue Sansa and telling him that you want her to be queen. Then you and I will sit and we’ll talk with Maester Aemon and the rest of the Watch and discuss the Wilding problem. Does that sound like a good idea?”

He waited for Bran to agree and then asked Sam for ink and paper, he and Bran had letters to write and a queen to crown.


	2. Brynden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so, something I forgot to mention, in this AU Tyrion got really injured at the Blackwater so he and Sansa are not yet married because he isn’t healed enough yet.
> 
> Also: Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented and kudosed so far, you are all awesome!

Ser Brynden Tully could be called many things, the black fish of the Tully family, a confirmed bachelor, and exceptional general. A good uncle.

And so when he received a letter from the bastard of Ned Stark he took it seriously, they may not have been related by blood but his nieces and nephews thought of the snow boy as their brother and so he was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. Especially when it contained news of Cat’s boys.

Catelyn had been the favourite of his brother’s children; she had been the most Tully of all of them. Even her time in the North had not removed the river from her veins. He read the letter again, hoping further reading would make his decision easier.

_‘Ser Brynden, _

_I write to you with information about your nephews, Brandon and Rickon Stark. You may have heard of their deaths at the hand of Theon Greyjoy, that was a falsehood. They escaped from Winterfell with the children of Howland Reed, Meera and Jojen, and managed to find their way to me at the Wall. They are safe. Enclosed is a letter in Bran’s own hand, reassuring you of this. I ask of you to travel to Kings Landing to free our sisters from the hands of those who slaughtered King Robb and the Lady Stark. They are the keys to the North and I dread to think what the Lannisters might be doing to retain control. _

_J_ _on Snow.’_

_‘Uncle Brynden, _

_Rickon and I are safe. We are with Jon and he won’t let anything happen to us. Free Sansa please, she is the rightful Queen of the North, I do not want it and Rickon is too young. Arya as well, she is the heir after Sansa and in just as much danger. To reassure you that this is me I tell you that I still carry those figures you gave me for my tenth name-day, the knight of the laughing tree, the nights watchman, the quiet wolf, and the wild wolf. Rickon likes them, he says it makes him feel like father is nearby. Please Uncle, take Sansa and Arya home. Take your queen home. _

_Bran Stark.’_

The second letter was more shocking than the first, Bran had named his sister as Queen, had broken the traditional line of succession. But it was his right to.

Brynden sighed, although it wasn’t one of displeasure, merely one at the thought of the logistical nightmare that was to come, he didn’t really have a choice. He needed to go to Kings Landing.

* * *

The arrangements at Riverrun were a logistical nightmare, but a necessary nightmare. Brynden could not afford to just surrender the castle to the Lannisters or the Freys, not when it contained the last of King Robb’s court.

And yet, he could not leave the girl that had been decided would be queen in Kings Landing, could not leave her somewhere where she was in danger of being executed should her brother’s proclamation come to life.

He had been offered a way into the city by Oberyn Martell, his on-again off-again lover happy to help with the rescue of a girl so similar to Elia from the lion’s claws. He would join the Dornish retinue into the city, no one would look at them too carefully for fear of angering the notoriously short-tempered prince.

But before he could do such a thing, he needed to gather enough men to be able to escort her safely through the war torn Riverlands, to be able to break the siege on Riverrun should it be necessary when they arrived back. A large number had been killed or captured at what was already being called the Red Wedding, but not all of them. Many had been garrisoned at Riverrun to protect the now Dowager Queen, more still had been near Harrenhal, preparing to attempt to retake it once more.

He had recalled those men, sent a message to Lord Piper and his son to halt the attack, to await more orders. He knew Ser Marq Piper had been captured at the Twins, but hoped that the presence of Lord Bracken as well might prevent the lords from doing anything foolish until he arrived.

He felt a little guilt over not telling the Dowager Queen Jeyne about his plan, but, he reasoned, her mother never left her side and could be often found decrying them all as traitors. It would be foolhardy to trust such a woman with information of any importance, let alone knowledge of the succession.

He knew he had been lucky to escape the massacre, knew that he had been lucky in his ability to warn the castle of the betrayal. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Didn’t make the death of the niece he had held as a new-born, the loss of her son who had smiled his first smile in his arms, hurt any less. His nephew was a prisoner, held only for his Tully blood and until his wife birthed a son.

Brynden had been making plans with Lord Elmer Hawick, the lord had been unable to attend the wedding at the Twins due to a knee wound, a wound he was now strangely grateful for. They were two old men, no longer at their prime fighting age perhaps, but it was something they made up for with experience.

They would need to trick the Lannisters and Freys, make them think that Brynden was still in Riverrun, make them think he was still trapped within the walls of his home and effectively muzzled.

He would have to sneak out, but that was not difficult, it was something he’d been doing since he was a child. He would swim beneath the gate, accompanied by a few knights and soldiers he trusted to be able to move quickly through the war-torn countryside.

Within the castle however, would be Lord Elmer and the Westerlings, and the garrison that King Robb had deemed fit to guard his bride. Brynden would leave a set of his black armour and a banner for Lord Elmer to use, the man would put on the breastplate and helmet on occasion so he could be seen from the walls. They hoped that this and the Tully and Stark banners flying would be enough to keep the Lannisters focused on the castle and not movement in the surrounding woodland.

He would travel to the camp near Harrenhal and order them to move close to Maidenpool, close enough to Kings Landing that they would not be travelling far without the protection of an army, and yet out of the way enough it was unlikely they would be discovered by the Lannisters. Then he would travel on, to meet with Oberyn and his entourage so as to sneak int the festering pit that was Kings Landing. From there he would somehow manage to spirit away his nieces, and take them to join the army.

That was, of course, if nothing went grievously wrong.

* * *

The journey to the camp was one Brynden would be happy to never repeat again, hiding from Lannister and Frey patrols in destroyed houses and up trees was not something he had ever pictured himself doing.

It was with great relief that they entered the camp, each man looking forward to a full night’s rest and the chance to wash off at least some of the dirt accumulated from scrambling through woodland to avoid armed patrols.

“Brynden!” Lord Jonos Bracken greeted him with open arms, “Its good to see you, now whats all this about?”

Brynden followed the man into a tent, in which Lord Clement Piper and his son Lewys were already sat waiting. He gratefully accepted the mug of ale he was handed and sat down wearily.

“As you know, the King is dead. Betrayed at the Twins by Walder bloody Frey and Roose Bolton. They sold us out to the Lannisters for some of that bloody gold.” HE took a draught of his ale as the men nodded with solemn faces, “I escaped by the skin of my teeth to Riverrun, where waiting for me was a Raven of all things, sent from Castle Black. That bastard son of Ned’s had written to me, telling me that the two princes were alive and there with him, and he had proof in the form of a letter written by Prince Bran, containing information that would have been difficult to fake.”

He waited out their gasps and the murmurs of travelling North so as to crown Bran in his brother’s place.

“Prince Bran doesn’t want the crown.” Brynden said bluntly when he got tired of their mutterings, “He has abdicated in favour of his sister, Sansa of House Stark. The same sister who is currently a prisoner of the Lannisters.”

There was a distinctly disgruntled tone to the mutterings that sentence provoked, a hint of displeasure at the thought of bowing before a girl over her trueborn brothers, no matter what the brothers might have said. 

“What about the younger boy? Or the bastard?” Lord Clement finally ventured.

“Rickon is a babe still, and the bastard is sworn to the Watch. He can hold no titles. And neither of them wants the throne. They want their sister to be queen.” Brynden fixed each of them with a stern glare in turn as he spoke. “And Sansa is not just any girl, Ned and Cat were grooming her for queenship for all her life, they knew it was likely King Robert would ask for her hand for his son.”

That finally quelled the murmurs, everyone knew of the values that Ned Stark would have instilled in any child of his, let alone a child he was grooming for a position of power. And Cat had been well thought of by much of the Riverlands, her reputation a positive one even after living so long in the North, it seemed like that reputation would be passed to her daughter, the one said to look so much like her.

“I will be travelling onwards tomorrow, to join with allies from Dorne,” Brynden continued to speak, “They will assist me in freeing the queen from her captors. In the meantime, I want plans and ideas for how we can take the Twins and avenge our losses, and for the camp to move to Maidenpool. Queen Sansa will need a tent, and we will need to be prepared to escort her back to Riverrun and the safety the castle offers her.”

He waited for the lords to nod before drinking the last of his ale and announcing his plans to find a bed, he would have an early start in the morn and had been looking forwards to what was likely to be his last good sleep for a while for over a week.

* * *

As they entered the Red Keep he was instantly on alert, for the sight of Sansa or Arya, for a guard who might have caught onto something not being quite right. He was disguised as a foot soldier, his features hidden beneath the swathes of fabric of Dornish attire.

Although, when he saw one of his nieces, Brynden had to work to stop himself from rushing over, because who else could that be with that colour of hair? Despite her height and the beacon of her hair she all but faded into the background. His niece, the daughter of two of the greatest and oldest houses in Westeros, was wearing a plain dress that was too short for her. It was an insult to the North and the Riverlands.

A calculated insult, one that could only be the work of that witch, Cersei Lannister. Her son was reported to be too brutish to be aware of the subtleties of court and the attire worn by those attending it. Brynden half suspected that the Old Lion himself had had a hand in the disgrace of the Heir to the Throne of the North and the Trident, had done this to draw attention at court away from the girl with more political power than perhaps she was aware of.

He could see her aborted flinch at the appearance of that odious Littlefinger, the man held the same expression he had worn around Cat and Lysa when they were younger, it was covetous and made a chill run down his spine. He had not thought anything of the boy’s infatuation, indeed had thought it rather normal for the ward of his house to think himself in love with his nieces. It was hardly strange; half the boys of Riverrun had fancied themselves in love with Catelyn or Lysa.

He had expected the boy from the Fingers to grow out of the infatuation, once he had seen how hopeless it was. He most certainly had not expected the child to challenge Cat’s betrothed, although the injury he received for that hubris had been expected by everyone but Petyr.

The presence of the odious man meant he would have to be more careful now, Littlefinger would be likely able to identify him better than most of these other lords and motive to keep Sansa near to him.

Brynden would need to rethink his plan slightly, even a quick glance around the room told him that his niece was being watched by no fewer than three Lannister men and two Tyrell men. It would be more difficult than he had expected, he would need to go over his plans with Oberyn and Ellaria once more, hopefully his lover and his lover’s paramour would be able to help him to work around these new obstacles.

And there was no sign anywhere of Arya, if she was being kept somewhere separately, he would have to rework his plans even more. That was something else he would need to find out about, it was unlikely she wouldn’t be attending the court, an event of this size was mandatory for all members of the court. He was slightly scared that she might have done something stupid, prompted by the ‘wolfs blood’ Cat had always spoken about, and got herself locked up in the cells.

The procession stopped and as irritating as he found the swathe of fabric around his helmet and head, he couldn’t help but be grateful for it, as it hid his paler skin so too did it hide the expression of contempt he felt as he gazed upon the butcher bastard that he Lannisters had proclaimed king.

The bastard was toying idly with a loaded crossbow, uncaring of the flinches of his courtiers and the disrespect he offered his guests by being so inattentive.

“Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, Lord Harmen Uller of Hellholt, Lady Blackmont of Torentine, Lord Manwoody of Kingsgrave, and Ser Arron Qorgyle of Sandstone.” The seneschal announced, seemingly unaware of the disinterest on the king’s face.

“Yes, yes, very good.” The bastard drawled, “You are welcome to Kings Landing and the Red Keep Prince Oberyn, I ask of you and your companions to join us for a meal this eve to celebrate your arrival.”

Brynden could see how Oberyn stiffened at the insult offered to him by the bastard king, his lover had always been a proud man. He watched as Ellaria placed a soothing hand on Oberyns’s back, one that Brynden assumed was meant to soothe and prevent their prince from doing anything too rash.

“We would be honoured Your Grace.” Oberyn bowed and began to lead them out of the hall once more, allowing himself in turn to be led to the quarters in which they would be housed for the duration of their stay.

It was only once they were safely ensconced in their rooms, when they were sure it was only loyal men around them, that Brynden removed his helm. He was glad to be free of the fabric, glad to be able to speak freely.

“Did you see your nieces, love?” Oberyn said, lounging on a chaise with a leonine grace.

“Aye, I saw one of them.” Brynden huffed, “She has been ill treated during her time here, the queen and the Old Lion seem to have done all they can to shame her. No sign of the other though, I worry what might have happened to her”

Ellaria passed him a goblet of wine, “What might we do to help?” She asked in a kind tone.

“I know not, I shall have to speak to Sansa first. Find out if she has any news of her sister, or of the guards.” He drank deeply from the goblet, “That is if I can get her alone.”

Oberyn took a goblet of wine and drank with a look of intense thought on his face. “She’s Northern, yes? The Red Keep has a Godswood so she’ll likely as not go there to pray. Not even the Mad King dared intrude on prayer, I doubt the Lannister’s would. I would bet that is where you might get your chance.”

It was so obvious that Brynden felt like shaking himself, how often had Robb retreated to the Godswood when kingship sat heavily on his brow? It was all but certain that Sansa would do the same, a habit no doubt ingrained in them by their father.

“I would reckon you are right my dear Oberyn. I shall investigate it further on the morrow. For now, we have hours until we have to deal with that bastard again.” He downed the rest of his cup and smirked at Oberyn.

A graceful eyebrow rose as his response, “Well my dear Blackfish, however shall we fill it?”

“I have some ideas.” He pounced at the now openly grinning prince.

* * *

He kept seeing Sansa around the Red Keep, flitting around like a ghost, pale and sad. She was always in the public areas of the Keep and always accompanied by her handmaid or a Tyrell.

It was going to be almost impossible to approach her unless he disturbed her prayers. Even then it wasn’t necessarily a guarantee, she wasn’t the only person to use the Godswood, for all she was the one to use it with the most frequency.

He had noticed that he wasn’t the only one keeping track of her movements; Baelish seemed to appear whenever she looked to be at her most low; Lady Margaery often found her in the gardens; the king himself often seemed to know just when he could cause the most torment to her.

Brynden had avoided the throne room after the first time he had borne witness to one of the ‘punishments’ that the bastard king had decided to inflict on his niece. He had needed to be held back by Ser Daemon to prevent him from trying to kill the king then and there.

There was little he could do to help her at this time, he ad don what he could, ordered fabrics so that when he managed to rescue her and her sister they could finally be dressed as befits their station. Could finally be freed from the humiliation that Cersei and Tywin had put them through.

And then he heard the rumours that the seamstresses had been told to prepare a wedding dress, that the Imp was finally awake from his injuries at the Battle of the Blackwater, and he knew that any plan he had would need to be speeded up.

He would try and approach her that evening.


	3. Sansa

Sansa kept her head held high and her expression blank. Her betrothal to Lord Tyrion was just another piece of bad news, nothing could hurt as bad as her brothers and mother’s deaths. Nothing as bad as seeing her father die in front of her. Nothing as bad as not knowing if Arya was dead or alive.

She kept her face blank or gently curved into the smile that had Cersei and Joffrey convinced she was simple.

She was Lady Stark and she would survive this; her blood line had survived for eight thousand years and it would not be broken by the Lannisters.

A procession of orange, red and gold filed passed her in the halls, the men with cloth wrapped around their helmets and many of the women in scandalously little.

“Shocking, aren’t they?” A voice breathed in her ear and Sansa had to will herself to not flinch. “No sense of modesty,” Baelish continued to whisper directly into her ear, “And that lady at the front, with her arms around the prince? She’s his paramour, not his wife.”

The lady in question had kind eyes, Sansa thought, though she didn’t voice it. Let them all think she was as simple as the queen proclaimed. It was safer that way.

They were interesting to watch, and she would be pleased to hear more about their land should she get the chance to talk to them, but she held no hope that they may be able to spirit her away from the Lannisters. She had long come to accept that no one would.

Long come to accept that she would be stuck under the thumb of Cersei and Joffrey until she died. In some ways it was less painful now that she didn’t have that kernel of hope that had existed while Robb was alive. She knew she wasn’t going to be rescued like in the songs she had loved so much, no handsome knight or dashing prince was coming to save her. She was to be married and used for her claim as the last of her family and then disposed of the moment she was no longer useful. If she was lucky, she would get time with her children before her end, she might have the chance to install some manner of honour into her children before they were ruined by the family she was to be bound to.

She ignored as Baelish continued to whisper poison in her ear until the Dornish Retinue had gone fully passed. He then slipped away, undoubtedly to plot and scheme and covet some more.

Sansa may have been forbidden from wearing her family’s colours or emblem, or voicing their words, but that did not stop her embodying them. Winter was coming, and it would come for the Lannisters, the Boltons, and the Freys. It would come for Baelish too, in time, she needed him for now, needed him to believe that she trusted him for he was the only one who attempted to ally himself with her, despite how crude his intentions may be.

She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell and the wolf did not cower before the lion. 

* * *

There was a strange sort of feeling in Sansa’s stomach every time she saw Margaery, a sort of flutter that was accompanied by a warmth she had previously only associated with Winterfell and home. She looked forward to, and treasured her walks in the rose gardens with the fair lady. She hated having that time disrupted, but it seemed to be happening more and more often.

“Sansa! Come join us, we are one short for cards!” Margaery called to her, from a terrace, jolting Sansa out of her thoughts.

“I… I would be pleased to,” Sansa stuttered, “But, why are you short a player? Is the Lady Leonette unwell?”

She sat at the chair next to Margaery at her friend’s urging, determinedly ignoring the flutter in her stomach as Margaery let out a crystalline laugh.

“Leonette had to leave unfortunately, she and Garlan are heading back to Highgarden at Willas’ urgings. I think my dear brother was lonely with us all in the Capital.”

Sansa tried to ignore the jealousy she felt at the casual way Margaery spoke of her brothers, her brothers who were very much alive and worked to protect her while she was at court.

Instead she concentrated on the cards in her hand and the idle chatter and gossip of the ladies around her. She laughed and chattered, talked about embroidery and music, pushed down the jealousy and resentment. Tried not to notice the way her attention was drawn to Margaery and the way her heart skipped when that lovely smile was directed her way.

The approach of a man in Lannister armour was an unpleasant sight, although one would never know it by the reactions of the ladies around Sansa.

“Lady Stark, the king requires your presence in the Throne Room.” The guard said in a bland voice, as though he wasn’t condemning a young maiden to humiliation in front of the court.

Sansa stood, she had no choice, to refuse the king was foolishness itself. She made her apologies to the ladies, to Margaery in particular. She thought she might have seen a glint of anger in Margery’s eyes, but she must have been mistaken, no one would feel anger on her behalf.

She followed the guard to the throne room and did not let the terror she felt show on her face, she would not give them the satisfaction. It was only Joffrey and the kingsguard in the room, which meant that the king was bored and she was there to entertain him with her suffering.

“Lady Sansa, tell me, how far does the traitor blood in your family run exactly?” Joffrey drawled, lounging on his throne and fingering his crossbow.

Sansa bowed her head and kept her eyes trained to the floor, “I know not, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps you can tell me, why your uncle has decided to hole up in his castle like a rat with the bitch your dead brother tried to whelp.”

“I know not, Your Grace.” Sansa said again, clinging to her ivory mask even as her heart clenched at the mention of Robb.

“You don’t know a lot, do you?” The king commented idly, “Perhaps we should reinforce our lessons Lady Sansa, we wouldn’t want you forgetting what happens to traitors now would we?”

He pulled his wormy lips into a smug smirk and gestured carelessly to Ser Boros Blount who moved towards Sansa menacingly.

“Show Lady Sansa here what happens to traitors.” He commanded with eager eyes.

The kingsguard cracked his knuckles and pushed her to her knees and Sansa allowed her mind to flee to thoughts of Winterfell and her family as the sword was brought down on her back again and again.

* * *

Sansa knelt in the Godswood, trying to hold back her tears. The pain in her back was worse than normal, the result of the wounds from her last ‘disciplining’ having not yet healed before new were layered on top. There was a damp stickiness across her shoulders and she cringed at the thought at yet another dress being ruined by her blood. She couldn’t wear a stained dress, it was bad enough they were ill fitting, a stained dress would invite more ridicule from the court.

It was something else to worry about, she was down to but two dresses now. Somehow, she would need to find the resources to make new gowns, preferably without asking the Queen for funds. Perhaps Margaery would exchange a bolt or two of fabric in return for information she could use against Joffrey, his love of skinning cats maybe. She doubted the elegant Tyrell had heard of that quirk of the Kings.

If not, then perhaps Shae might be able to scrounge her up some fabric again, Sansa was relatively certain that the fabric Shae had found last time had come from Lord Tyrion. But that was something she didn’t really want to think too deeply about.

She was trying to avoid all thoughts of the man she was supposed to marry, it was childish she knew but it was the only thing keeping her tenuous grasp on sanity. Lord Tyrion was the least objectionable of the Lannisters but she most certainly did not want to marry into the family responsible for the death of her own family.

A rustle in the greenery behind her jolted her out of her thoughts and she stood, brushing out her skirts. There was no reason for her to look anything less than composed.

Sansa was surprised to see a Dornish soldier emerge along the pathway, as far as she knew no one in Dorne worshipped the Old Gods. She was instantly on alert, fearful that it would be another humiliation by the king.

The soldier stopped some distance from her, and reached up to slowly remove his fabric wrapped helmet. Sansa could only watch in shock as he revealed pale skin and features so similar to her own.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the apparition from in front of her, if she hoped that someone from her family had survived and come to rescue her, well, that way madness lay.

“You have not seen me since you were but a babe dear niece,” The apparition said, in a voice that was both new and yet somehow known to her, “But I promise you, I am here to take you home.”

He stepped forwards with a hand out and a gentle smile on his face, as though he was reaching out to a scared cat. A resemblance, Sansa realised as she took in her shaking hands, that was no entirely unfounded.

“You claim to be my uncle, my lord. Yet you stand here in this place when I know that my family is dead.” Sansa responded in as cold a tone as she could manage. “Please tell me, who sent you? The queen perhaps? I promise I am loyal.”

The man Sansa could not believe was her uncle flinched at her words. A stricken expression crossed his face, “Sansa, sweetling, I am no trick. Your brothers asked me to come for you and Arya, something I should have done long ago.”

Sansa felt herself crack slightly at that, she so desperately wanted to believe she hadn’t been forgotten by her kin. She took a step forwards, and then another without even thinking about it.

A crooked smile, one she saw be identical to her mother’s crossed her uncle’s face and Sansa thawed.

She all but ran forwards into his arms, stumbling along the way and breaking into sobs as she felt his arms wrap around her. It was the first time she had been held since the arrest of her father, the first time since then that she had felt even a glimmer of safety.

A broad hand stroked at her hair as she sobbed, the soothing movement working to calm her until she could lift her head and speak.

“I must have misheard you uncle, you said my brothers wrote to you, but I have only one brother left and he is far from me.”

The hand moved from her hair to cradle her face, to make her look into eyes the same shade as her own, “Bran and Rickon are alive. They are at the Wall with your half-brother, somehow they escaped Winterfell and the Ironborn.”

Sansa desperately searched his eyes for any hint of untruth and when she could find none felt tear fill her eyes once more, this time though they were tears of joy. She was not as alone as she had thought!

“Sweetling, what’s happened to your sister? Where do the Lannisters have her?” Uncle Brynden asked her gently.

She pulled away slightly, “Arya is gone. She disappeared when father was arrested. No one knows what happened to her.”

She could feel her uncle sigh as she was pulled back into his hold, evidently he was as reluctant to let go as she was.

“We’ll find her little one, we’ll find your sister and bring her home.” He vowed softly, moving his hand to between her shoulder blades to press her even closer as though he could hide her from the cruelty of the world.

She flinched at the movements though, his hand pressed into the wounds littering her back and managed to reopen another one.

This time he was the one to pull away, his hands resting on her shoulders, and he looked at her with concern. He opened his mouth as if to ask her something but they both stiffened as they heard the greenery rustle once more.

“Lady Sansa?” Shae called out, and it was then that Sansa realised just how much time had passed.

“I have to go,” She whispered, and turned to leave the sanctuary of the Godswood.

Her uncle grabbed her elbow as she moved to brush past him, “You will know when it is time to leave, you can trust the Dornish, they are allies. Is there anything I can get you that will make the time until we leave easier?”

Sansa thought carefully, there was little he could get her that would not rouse suspicion, “Milk of the poppy if possible, and uncle? Thank you.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before reapplying her mask of ivory. It wasn’t as heavy as normal, now she had the hope to escape.

* * *

Things had lightened somewhat since her uncle had revealed himself to her, it might have been the knowledge that her time in the keep was coming to an end, it might have been that she felt hope for the first time since Robb and her mother died.

It might have been that her back no longer pained her as her uncle had managed to get her milk of the poppy to lessen the pain of her wounds.

It might also have been that the Dornish seemed to run interference between her and the rest of the court, unless she was with the Tyrells there was almost always a member of the Dornish delegation nearby. The ladies invited her to take tea and go for walks around the garden, while the men offered to escort her when she travelled around the Keep.

It was almost pleasant.

Of course it could not last. She was summoned to Cersei’s chambers and prodded and poked into a swathe of ivory and gold fabric by giggle seamstresses and a bored queen.

Her confusion lasted as long as it took for the seamstresses to make the first bawdy joke, it was a fitting for her wedding dress, one that looked to be near completion. It was a starting realisation, she had all but forgotten her upcoming marriage in the wake of her uncle’s appearance.

She couldn’t get married, not if she wanted to be able to go home.

Internally Sansa began to panic, her mind filled with horrors of what might happen should she be married before her uncle managed to spirit her away.

The panicked state gripped her all the rest of the day, it was noticed by Shae who made some comment as she began to unwind Sansa’s hair from the elaborate hairstyle when preparing for bed. It must have been noticeable for Shae to comment, for she had been distracted since the Battle of the Blackwater.

There was a knock on the door to her chambers, just as Sansa was going to respond, that made both of them freeze. Nothing good had ever come from Sansa’s door being knocked on, usually it was a summons by the king.

Shae slowly released the braid she was holding and moved to open the door, giving Sansa the time to smooth her face from its fearful expression. If it was a summons from Joffrey she couldn’t be seen to be scared.

Sansa strained her ears but could not hear the words of the whispered conversation taking place in her doorway between her handmaid and whoever was calling on her. Shae eventually stepped to the side with a disgruntled look on her face to allow the caller to enter the chamber.

“My Lady.” The three figures, their faces covered by hoods, that had entered swept into low curtseys to accompany their greeting.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably; it was rare that she was shown sincere respect, and to have people with hidden features enter her rooms likely didn’t mean anything good.

The figures exchanged a look and then pulled back their hoods to reveal faces Sansa had certainly never expected to see in her chambers, yet was grateful they were there.

Dark eyes peered at her, eyes that had only become a feature around the Keep since the arrival of the Dornish. Lady Ellaria Sand, Lady Tyene Sand and Lady Blackmont stood in her chambers, something akin to reverence in their gazes. But she must have been misreading them, no one could ever look at her like that.

“Your uncle sent us, my lady.” Lady Ellaria said in a smooth, soothing voice, “The time is right to leave this cesspool of a city. Gather what you can and come quickly.”

“What do you mean by that?” Shae asked bluntly, “They are never going to let her out of this castle. She’s too noticeable, especially with that hair.”

She probably should have realised that Shae would have helped her, even as she spoke her handmaid was bustling around the room, rolling belongings up in a blanket and pretty cloth so it looked like a gift.

“We have something for you to wear, my lady.” Lady Blackwood said, holding out a bundle of sheer seeming cloth. “It’s a set of Lysene veils, they will hide your appearance and fit in well with out contingency until we manage to leave the city.”

Sansa took the cloth with trepidation, while she had distaste for the idea of wearing the style, she could admit that the layers of cloth, no matter how sheer it might appear individually, would do good job of hiding her features and making her blend in with the Dornish women, many of whom he had seen in a similar attire previously.

Shae and Lady Tyene helped her to wrap the fabric around herself over the gown she still wore, they worked quickly and with skilled fingers until she was concealed.

Lady Ellaria took the bundle that Shae handed her, thanking her as she did so.

“I didn’t do it for you, or the kingdom.” Shae said, “I did it for her. She’s been hurt enough here and deserves a chance to live away from that brat on the throne.”

Sansa felt tears fill her eyes at Shae’s words, she rushed forwards and threw her arms around one of the few people she would miss from her time in the Red Keep.

Shae’s arms wrapped around her gently and she whispered in her ear, “Go and be the queen I know you were born to be my Lady.”

A gentle hand cradled her face through the veils and Sansa was startled to see tears in her handmaid’s eyes.

“I will discover her missing in the morning when I come to dress her for the day.” Shae announced to the room, “This should give you enough time to get away from the city undetected.”

Lady Tyene grabbed Sansa’s hand and started to pull her out of the room, and as she left through the door, she heard Shae speak once more.

“Now go my lady, and don’t look back.”


	4. Brynden

Brynden drove them hard through the night, the more distance they put in between them and Kings Landing before their departure was discovered, the better it would be.

He had Sansa tucked in front of him on his horse, one of her own would be waiting for her in Maidenpool but he did not think she would have been up to such a hard ride after so long away from horseback. She was wrapped carefully in a heavy cloak, the only part of her visible was her small white hand that was clutching at his jerkin.

The relief he had felt when he saw her in the stables, stood between Lady Ellaria and Lady Blackmont could not be understated, the sight of her and the lack of bells meant that they had manged to smuggle her out of the Keep. Managed to smuggle her out right under Tywin’s nose.

Dawn was just rising when he let them finally rest, they were far enough from the city that they could afford to stop for an hour to eat something. They were but a few hours from the camp where Oberyn had left men he was lending to Sansa’s cause and Brynden was looking forward to reaching the apparent safety it offered.

Of course, not everyone in the Dornish camp would be accompanying them, a large delegation would be heading back to Dorne to report to Prince Doran of the problems his brother had managed to cause once more and to aid with the defence of the borders now that they knew the strength of the Lannister armies. Even then they were being given more help than Brynden had ever hoped for, and he had been given a letter from Prince Doran promising them food and aid with the rebuilding once the war was over which put another of his worries to rest.

As soon as he felt everyone had had long enough to rest he made them all mount up again. They did need to keep moving and Brynden know he wouldn’t relax fully until they were back in Riverrun.

He noticed that Sansa had managed to remove the last of the veils she’d had wrapped around her as he pulled her back in front of him. She seemed more alert now, less scared almost and she peered around as they rode through the countryside of the Crownlands. Every so often she would look up at his face and a small smile would grace her features.

One of the Dornish began to sing as they rode and Brynden smiled as he recognised the song, ‘Wolf in the Night’ was one that never failed to make him smile, the memory of that victory would be one he would take to his gave still treasured. Sansa stiffened lightly in his arms and made a surprised sound as she heard the first few lyrics.

“I’ve never heard this song before.” She confessed to him quietly.

Brynden smiled down at her, “Aye, I can see why that bastard king wouldn’t have anted this song sung in his halls. Its about your brother’s victory at Oxcross after all.”

Sansa made another soft noise, and settled against him to listen carefully to the song. When it finished the man was bombarded with requests from others in their party but he held up his hand and called out instead,

“What does the princess want to hear? Surely the most beautiful Princess Sansa has a preference for the song she would like to hear next?”

Sansa was quiet for a moment, and Brynden found himself worrying that she might have forgotten how to express her preferences whilst a prisoner, but she did speak up in a soft but strong voice.

“I should like to hear ‘Jenny’s Song’ if it is not too much trouble?”

The sad notes of the song started up, with many people joining in and Brynden wasn’t ashamed to feel a tear fall down his cheek, he wasn’t the only one to be affected so.

* * *

He had let Oberyn lead them the rest of the way to his troops, trusting that his over would be able to get them there in one piece while he focused on ensuring Sansa was comfortable.

He regretted it when they crested a hill to see banners before them in the valley below, the gold rose of the Tyrells alongside the sun and spear of the Martells. Had Oberyn really betrayed him? Had he got Sansa out of that hellhole only for her to be sent back.

His hand flew to the sword at his hip, ready to fight so Sansa could escape if necessary. Ready to die so she wouldn’t be sent back to her tormenters if necessary.

“Sansa, sweetling, if I say the word you ride for Maidenpool. You don’t stop and you don’t look back.” He whispered in her ear, hating the frightened light that filled her eyes as she nodded, a single sharp jerk of her chin, in agreement.

He felt so proud of her in that moment, of the iron in her veins that seemed to almost completely replace the scared child she had been just hours before.

“Prince Oberyn!” A cheerful looking man dressed in green called out, “My brother sends his regards to you, he said to tell you dragon to B4.”

Brynden could hear Oberyn curse as the prince swung off his horse to pull the man into a hug.

“Your brother is as crafty a cyvasse player as ever Ser Garlan.” Oberyn said in his ever-cheerful tone, “May I present Ser Brynden Tully and his niece the Princess Sansa Stark. Ser Brynden, Princess Sansa, may I introduce Ser Garlan Tyrell.”

Ser Garlan bowed to them both and Brynden inclined his head in acknowledgment, even if they had betrayed them it cost nothing to be polite.

“Ser Garlan, would you mind telling me what exactly you and your troops are doing here?” Brynden said, in a tone filled with steel.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The man would not stop grinning, “I’m here to pledge myself to Princess Sansa, upon the urging of my sweet sister and at the will of my dear elder brother.”

He held a hand out, offering to help Sansa dismount from the horse and Brynden took the opportunity to study the man. He did not seem insincere, and there was no tenseness in the men surrounding them that might herald an attack. Brynden decided to risk it and allowed Ser Garlan to help his niece dismount, following himself soon afterwards.

There was a slight commotion from within the camp and Brynden’s hand went back to his sword as he stood alert, ready to pull Sansa behind him to safety if need be.

“Peace my lord,” Ser Garlan all but laughed, “I’m sure you and the princess will be pleased to see who exactly is causing the commotion.”

Three figures emerged from between the tents, their features not unfamiliar but their sigils a welcome sight indeed.

“My lady,” They knelt before Sansa, offering her their blades.

“Lord Robett, Ser Marlon, Ser Donnel, it is good to see familiar features and hear familiar voices once more.” His niece said, somehow able to recognise the men from the sigils alone.

They looked upon her like a starving man would gaze upon a feast, with no little awe and reverence. Sansa shifted slightly, obviously uncomfortable with the attention on her.

That snapped Brynden into action, he moved so she was shielded by him from their gaze and began to interrogate them on how they had come to be a part of the Tyrell/Martell camp of all places. It turned out that all three had been part of a hostage exchange of some sort, one that the Tyrell’s had taken over, and when offered the chance to fight for a Stark once more grabbed it with both hands.

He allowed Sansa to be taken to a tent where Ser Garlan’s wife was residing, apparently the two of them knew each other due to Margaery Tyrell. As he did so, he pulled a dress out of his saddlebags, it was an older style gown, one that had belonged to Cat long ago, but it was in the Tully colours and would likely fit Sansa better than her current gown did. He sent the dress off with Sansa, half praying she would accept it for the gift it was without thinking poorly of it being second hand. He was having new gowns being made for her, but they were not finished yet, and besides it would probably be comforting to have something belonging to her mother. Or so he hoped.

Brynden himself was taken to a pavilion by Oberyn and Ser Garlan, it was a move he was pleased about, he had questions for the pair of them.

“So when the fuck did this happen.” He all but growled, gesturing to the Tyrell, “Last I knew your family were in support of the Iron bloody Throne.”

Ser Garlan smiled lazily at him, “My brother thought it best to hedge our bets, especially when Oberyn was the one asking, and Margaery of course, she’s quite taken with your niece.”

He decided to file that piece of information about Lady Margaery and Sansa for later, and merely raised an eyebrow at Oberyn.

“You know Willas and I have a good relationship, aided of course by those lovely cheekbones of his.” Oberyn shrugged, pantherlike in his grace, “When I mentioned the fair maiden in need of rescuing and you name, well he was more than happy to help us, and is more than willing to arrange a favourable trade deal for your niece’s kingdom should it be needed.”

Brynden couldn’t keep the shock off his face as he stared between the two, when he had contacted Oberyn for help he had expected nothing more than aid in escaping the Red Keep, not arranging alliances for him.

“Well he did say that he would also greatly appreciate it if we both visited again, apparently he has fond memories of the last time we three were in a room together.” Oberyn continued, seemingly uncaring that the brother of the man they were talking about was in the same room as them.

Brynden forced himself not to flush, he too had fond memories of the last time he met the heir to Highgarden, despite the man being a few decades younger than him they had all had a good time.

Ser Garlan merely laughed at their conversation, “Willas sent me with eight thousand men, and the promise that he can perhaps call upon another four thousand if needed. We have supplies enough to feed twelve thousand for a year, and horses and tents a plenty. Although much of it is left over from the court of King Renly, for which I can only apologise.”

Eight thousand men, and supplies enough even for his own men awaiting them at Maidenpool, it was madness. And yet, the Tyrell was sincere, as was Oberyn, he could see it in their eyes.

With an army of that size, they might have more than a fools hope after all.

* * *

They rode into the camp at Maidenpool near a week later, heads held high, banners flapping in the wind behind them. A hush fell across the camp at the sight of them, at the sight of Sansa’s red hair flying behind her like a living flame.

He pretended not the feel the way she trembled in the saddle, he could understand that she likely finally believed she was safe, at the sight of the banners and loyal bannermen. And if he squeezed her hand gently as he helped her dismount, who was to know.

“Princess Sansa,” Lord Bracken bowed as they approached, “It is good to see you. Please know that we all mourn with you.”

Brynden watched with pride as his niece merely inclined her head, “I thank you for your kind words, and your warm welcome Lord Bracken. Lord Piper, please accept my sympathies for the capture of your son.”

Her word and tone were courteous and he could see from the expression on the lords’ faces that she had already managed to charm them. That was good, it would make his life easier should she be able to charm allies by her own accord.

As he watched her turn to accept the offer of an escort from Lord Piper, he was suddenly struck by how much she looked like Cat. Not just her hair and features, but the way she held herself, the careful courtesies. They were all Cat.

Except there was an edge to them, an edge that spoke of a bloodthirstiness his little Cat had never really had. An edge that had adorned all the Stark’s he had met. An edge that would serve her well in ruling.

Letters awaited him and Sansa in his tent, ones that somehow had found their way to the hidden camp in, if Jonos Bracken was to be believed, the claws of a buzzard of all things. Each was sealed with the crest of House Stark and the Nights Watch, and when he broke the seal of the one addressed to him, he saw why.

It was a request to pass the message onto Sansa, a request for advice on what topics Rickon should be learning, a request for advice on what their next moves should be. And information that apparently the Others were not just a fairy tale and that thousands of wildings were gearing p to attack Castle Black should negotiations fail.

It was a lot to take in.

The wilding problem was one that needed their attention first, else Sansa would be fighting a war on two fronts before she was even crowned. He would need to suggest to her that she authorise someone to negotiate for her in the North, and that she offer to settle them in her lands should they obey her laws.

It was a sad fact that they needed more men after the massacre had taken most of their army, and if the Others truly were real, they would need all the manpower they could get.

Brynden could feel his brain skipping over the thought of dead men rising, he was a rational man and did not want to believe that the myths were true. Not least because an army of dead men would be a foe like no other.

There were still things to deal with around the camp however, before he began to worry about the situation beyond the Wall. The Dornish and Tyrell troops needed to be settled among his own, their supplies needed to be consolidated, and his niece needed to be crowned.

But first he was going to find a bloody drink and see if Bracken had anymore news about the current state of the Riverlands, there was no point making plans half-blind after all.

* * *

Brynden loved his niece and he hated to thrust her into the stress that came from ruling, but he didn’t really have a choice. There was already confusion over how she should be addressed, with some men insisting on princess and others calling her Lady Stark. It would be best to get the official decision over and done with, before violence broke out over it.

In addition, there was the matter of her bastard brother’s letter, they needed someone with the authority to be able to decide what to do with the Wildlings at the Wall. Someone who the Northern lords would not betray if they made an unpopular decision for the good of the realm.

“Sansa, sweetling, I know this is a lot to ask of you but we need a figure head to rally around. Someone to give us hope that the war will end and we will be cared for by our monarch.”

Sansa looked up at him with fear still in her eyes, his poor niece was still hurting from her time in Kings Landing. With good reason, she had been most ill-used, and as much as he hated to say it that would be an excellent rallying point for the Lords of her Kingdom.

They would love the chance to defend their young, beautiful queen’s honour, to gain revenge on those who had hurt her. But first he needed her to agree to this, to agree to be crowned.

“While we could do it if you were Lady Stark it would be much more difficult, there wouldn’t be a sense of community among the troops dear niece.” He tried to reassure her and it appeared like it may have worked a little.

“And, and you wouldn’t abandon me uncle? You would help me” Desperation tinged with resignation filled her voice, as though she was pleading for something she thought she would be denied. He wanted to clench his fists at the thought that this had been done to her by the Lannisters but knew it would frighten her more than she already was.

“Of course I will sweetling, I will stay by you side for as long as you wish me to.”

He could see the steel fill his niece’s spine at his words, see the ivory mask she rarely let fall slot back into place. “Then I shall do as you ask Uncle, should the other lords wish it I will take up my brothers crown and take back our kingdom.”

Brynden felt a smile pull at his lips, “All hail Queen Sansa, First of her Name, Queen of the Trident and Queen of the North, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm. Long may you reign.”

He fell to his knee and bowed his head in front of her, allowing the smile to fill his face at the sight of the awe he could see on Sansa’s face as she heard her new titles for the first time.

He helped her to brush off her Tully blue skirts, squeezed at her hand reassuringly and then led her out of her tent and in the loudest voice he could muster proclaimed “All hail Queen Sansa!”

Lord and soldier, Northman and Riverlander, Dornishman and Reachman alike fell to their knees, proclaiming the same back at his niece. A hint of fright filled her eyes at the cacophony of noise, but it was soon smoothed over and a gentle smile lit her face.

“My lords, you honour me.” She said, in a voice as smooth and polished as her mother’s had been, “I give you my oath that I will not stop until we have received freedom from the Iron Throne and justice for those we lost at the Red Wedding. In the morn we shall ride for Riverrun, for the Twins, to free our captured companions and teach the Lannisters and Frey’s a lesson they shall never forget. But for now, eat, drink and be merry!”

A cheer followed her words, louder than before, increasing in volume as Oberyn approached them, a parcel in his hands.

“I commissioned this for you, Queen Sansa, as soon as your Uncle told us our quest.”

He pulled off the cloth to reveal a bronze circlet, stamped with a pattern not dissimilar to fish scales, with nine iron swords pointing up from it. It was such an Oberyn gesture, to commission something that would have had them all killed had it been discovered in Kings Landing that Brynden had to force himself to hold back a snort.

Brynden took it from him, as the closest relative to Sansa there, and held it above his niece’s head.

“No gold or jewels shall crown thee, for when winter comes and cold winds blow, bronze and iron shall defend thine kingdom.” He intoned, speaking the words that had existed for eight thousand years and a mere three centuries could not make vanish, “We, the lords of the North and the Trident, do proclaim thee, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the Trident and Queen of the North. A Queen of Winter we do proclaim thee, and a Queen thou shall be until the world stops turning and the stars stop shining.”

He placed the crown upon her brow, as gently as one might place a cap on a babe’s head, and smiled as the lords and soldiers alike took up the cheer once more.

“The Queen in the North! The Queen of the Trident! The Queen of Winter!”


	5. Jon

_‘Jon Stark, Prince of the North;_

_Brother, I hope this letter find you well. Please find starched with this letter two documents, one containing your official pardon from the Watch, the other conveying my authority onto you, to act as ambassador and guardian whilst I am absent. _

_Should something happen to me whilst I am South and Arya is not found, I would ask that you act as Regent until Rickon comes of age. Should something happen to Rickon, know that you, Jon Stark, will be heir to the throne of the North and the Trident. _

_While I know you wished to belong to the Watch, I have greater need of you. The pack must stick together if we are to survive. _

_Do what you must to keep our brothers safe. Give them both my love. _

_Your loving sister,_

_Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and the Trident.’_

Jon could barely believe it, for all the jokes he had heard about being a prince, and now it was true. And he’d been gifted with the Stark name, it was something he had longed for for so long and to receive it was a gift he would never truly be able to repay.

The pardon, while not something he particularly wanted, was a document that would solve a number of his problems, as was the writ allowing him to make decisions in Sansa’s name.

He could hardly wait to see the expression on Alliser Thorne’s face at the sight of them both.

Now he would be able to bring the Free Folk through the Wall, there was no need for the Watch’s permission when he had the Queen of the North’s permission to settle them in her lands.

He looked over the documents, they were as Sansa had said, one providing him with an official pardon from the Watch, the other giving him guardianship over Rickon and Bran, and conveying him the authority to make decisions in Sansa’s name.

He was still sat there, looking at the letters when Rickon found him. His baby brother toddled over and poked at the letters with a look of intense concentration on his face.

Jon pulled the boy on to his lap and picked up the letter from Sansa to hold in front of Rickon.

“Can you read any of this sweetling?” He asked gently, “Its a letter from Sansa, see here.”

He took Rickon’s pudgy finger and gently traced the letters of Sansa’s name.

“Sssss” Rickon said, tracing the letter ‘s’ over again.

“That’s right!” Jon grinned, “Do you know any other letters here?”

Rickon’s brow furrowed as he looked at the piece of parchment, he stabbed his finger down on his name, “Rrrr for Rickon!”

Jon squeezed him in a hug, “Well done Rickon!”

They had had a tense few weeks, waiting to hear whether or not Ser Brynden had succeeded, or whether they had doomed another family member to die. But now they knew she was safe and a queen and the only danger she was in was that of every monarch on a campaign.

It perhaps wasn’t the most reassuring place for her to be, but at least their sister was surrounded by people sworn to protect her, instead of their enemies.

“Now sweetling, why don’t you and I go find Osha and Tormund? I have some good news for them both that I think they will be very pleased to hear.”

He stood, swinging Rickon up at the same time so that the toddler ended up perched on his shoulders. He smiled as Rickon kicked his legs in glee at being so high up, with the added bonus of not being in danger of hitting his head as happened when Tormund was the one to do such a thing.

It had astounded Jon just how quickly Tormund had taken to Rickon, and vice versa, the two seemed to adore one another. If Jon needed to find one of them, he would often just look for the other, they were together so often. It likely originated because Tormund was missing his daughters, even as Rickon missed Robb and the way he always had time for him.

Every so often a little piece of Jon would start to hurt at the thought that Rickon had so few memories of their father that he missed their brother in his place. Sometimes in the early hours of the morning he wondered if even Rickon’s memories of Robb and Catelyn would fade in a similar way.

It was something he tried to fight against as much as he could, he told Rickon stories about their father and brother, about their sisters, even about Rickon’s mother, any story he could no matter how mundane in an attempt to keep their memories in Rickon’s head.

For now, his heart was lightened by the soft sound off Rickon’s giggles as he waved to everyone they passed, lightened by the knowledge that Bran was eagerly soaking up tales of beyond the Wall from Ygritte and even Orell, lightened by the knowledge that at least one of his sisters was safe.

They found Tormund in one of the halls, looking over one of his boots with a critical eye, a pot of fat next to him. His eyes lit up at the squeal Rickon made upon seeing him.

“Tormund! Tormund! Sansa!” Rickon babbled out in excitement, wriggling atop Jon’s shoulders and reaching towards the wilding.

“Hello there Little Firewolf, Princess Crow,” Tormund said, a grin on his face as he spied the grimace crossing Jon’s.

“You know, technically I am now neither of those things. But that’s not important, have you heard anything about the representatives being sent for negotiations with the North’s representative?”

Tormund laughed as he reached out and took Rickon onto his own shoulders, “They should be here soon, when does yer person arrive? Has yer queen even been crowned yet, or are you just hoping she’ll be so grateful for being free she won’t mind you making decisions for her?”

Jon sat in a chair by the fire, “Well, as of today you’re are looking at Queen Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North and the Trident’s representative in the negotiations with the Free Folk. She was crowned a week ago by her uncle and the lords of the North and Riverlands.”

Tormund let out a large huff and bounced Rickon gently, prompting yet more squeals of joy, “Well its good we aren’t trying to deal with some stuffy lord, instead we get the joy of a pretty crow.”

Jon willed himself not to flush at the slight leer in Tormund’s eyes, or the sheer affection in those words. He loved Ygritte, even if he didn’t see her very much anymore when most of her time was spent with Osha or Meera Reed, and his was spent with Rickon or Tormund.

“I need to go speak with the acting Lord Commander about the contents of my sister’s letter, could I leave Rickon with you? Or would you prefer if I found someone else to watch him for a while?”

“I’ll look after the Little Firewolf, don’t you worry about that. We gingers should stick together after all and I’m sure he would be delighted to hear about the time I fought a giant now.”

As Jon left the room all he could hear was Rickon’s excited noises and the low rumble of Tormund’s voice, and it was nice, it reminded him a little of Winterfell back when they were all happy.

He still couldn’t quite believe that of all the people to survive beyond the Wall Alliser fucking Thorne was one of them, and that he had been made acting Lord Commander while the elections went on.

He knocked on the door of the Lord Commander’s office, looking forward to the reaction he would surely find within. When a gruff voice told him to enter his anticipation increased tenfold.

“What the fuck do you want Little Lord Snow.” Ser Alliser grunted to him.

“I have received communications from the Queen of the North and the Trident that is of relevance to you Ser.” Jon said, in as bland a voice as he could manage.

“Why would I be interested in whatever your bloody sister says?” Thorne said, “Give them over then.”

Jon placed the documents in his outstretched hand and settled back to watch the expressions scrolling across Thorne’s face as he read.

“You can’t be bloody serious Snow.” Ser Alliser said, “I’m finally getting rid of you? I should send your Queen my thanks.”

“I’m sure she would appreciate that Ser.” Jon really had to stop himself from smirking as he said his next word, “Unfortunately, you aren’t quite rid of me yet Ser, Queen Sansa asks that I remain here to act as her ambassador during the negotiations with the Free Folk, she has said that in exchange for continuing to host myself and the princes here at the Wall she will send an increase in supplies for the same duration of time as we are hosted.”

Thorne grunted as he thought it over, not that he really had much of a choice in it, there was nowhere else that could hold the talks between the Free Folk and the North.

“Fine, I will send the Queen a message telling her we accept her offer. You will stay out of the Watch’s business while you are here though Snow, you aren’t a brother any more after all.”

Jon nodded, took the documents back and started to leave the room. When he reached the door, he paused and turned his head so he was looking at Thorne, “Oh by the way Ser Alliser, you got my name wrong. It’s not Snow anymore, it’s Stark.”

He left before Thorne could say anything, but greatly enjoyed the smash that came from within the room as he walked down the corridor.

That had been exactly as satisfying as he had thought it would be.

* * *

He had recounted the tale to Sam, Edd and Grenn later, the three of them as amazed by the smile on his face throughout the retelling as they were entertained by the story itself. Ser Alliser shot him a glare every time he saw him around the castle, and his pained sounding ‘my lord’ filled Jon with such a vindictive pleasure it surprised him with its strength.

It was one of the few things making the negotiations with the Free Folk easier to deal with. Jon was exhausted after trying to come to a compromise with the people Mance had sent, Tormund was the only one who seemed to actually care to listen.

It didn’t help that, while Jon had had the same lessons as Robb and Theon growing up including ones in diplomacy, he hadn’t had a need to put those lessons into practice before.

He was sat there in the hall they had claimed for this purpose, waiting for the representatives to stop arguing among themselves. Every other sentence seemed to spark an argument between them, whether it was a discussion of how they would feed themselves or the laws they must follow should they be South of the Wall.

“Shut yer gobs!” Tormund finally yelled, banging his fists so hard on the table that everything on it jumped, he was evidently as tired of weeks of pointless arguments as Jon was, “Lets at least listen to the bloody terms that the queen has set out before we argue over them.”

He turned to look expectantly at Jon, his stomach felt funny suddenly at having those intense blue eyes focused on him.

“Queen Sansa and her advisors have asked that any alliance be beneficial to both sides, she asks that some of your people be stationed at two of the currently unmanned castles along the Wall; she promises that Wintertown will be open to all once Winterfell is retaken, provided that her laws are obeyed within its confines; she asks that some of the Free Folk aid her in retaking Winterfell when the time comes; in return she promises that within your own communities you can remain self-governing as long as your laws have no impact on her own citizens, that means no raiding simply put.” He read from the quite extensive letter Sansa had sent separately when he had asked what she wished. She had mostly told him to do what he thought best, although she had sent those as starting points for the negotiations.

A small, foolish, part of Jon hoped that the Free Folk would just accept those terms so they could start moving people through the Wall to what passed for safety these days. The rest of him knew that they would likely argue over the terms, some just for the sake of arguing, while others might have legitimate worries so he would have to pay attention to it all.

“And how long exactly would this treaty of yer’s last?” Val asked, looking to all extents and purposes like she would rather be anywhere else than in that hall.

“Until the end of the winter, at which point Queen Sansa would like to renegotiate one for the Free Folk who choose to stay as well as one between her kingdom and those who choose to go back north of the Wall.” Jon answered her promptly.

There were a few more questions, but the gods must have been smiling on Jon because no one seemed to actually disagree with the terms set out.

But then the question he had been dreading was asked, “And what about a marriage Crow? Isn’t that the way yer people normally sort this sort of thing out?” It was asked by a member of the Hornfoot Clan the Jon couldn’t remember the name of for the life of him.

“Are yer offering then?” Tormund laughed, a great booming thing as he settled his arm across the back of the bench he was sat on. “Hopin’ to find yerself a pretty Southern wife?”

Jon spoke before the Hornfoot had a chance to take offence, “Queen Sansa does not ask for a wedding alliance, we are aware that it would be an insult to your culture, all she asks is that the King-Beyond-the-Wall signs a treaty that both parties have a copy of, she knows your people are honourable and asks that you trust her to be the same.”

The Free Folk exchanged looks between themselves and started nodding, Jon could have wept. The negotiations might finally be over.

* * *

“Jon I need to go beyond the Wall.”

The words jolted him out of his contented state by the fire and made him turn to see the exhausted face of his little brother.

“What? Bran, you know you’re safe here now, don’t you? There isn’t a need for you to run anymore.” Jon moved so he was knelt before the chair bran had been placed in.

Bran sighed at him, and rubbed his eyes, a gesture that emphasised just how dark the circles around them were. “My dreams have got much worse, it’s like whoever was calling me knows I’ve stopped moving forwards.”

“Your dreams? Bran, dreams pass in time, you don’t need to go chasing after them.” He said, placing a hand upon his brother’s.

“Not these dreams.” Bran all but whispered, a haunted tone to his voice, “Have you ever dreamed something and then discovered it was true? That’s what these are like, only more urgent.”

Jon tried not to think about the dream he’d had on what must have been the night of Robb’s death, the sight of the wolf crowned by arrows. He dreaded what Bran might have been dreaming of, so much had happened to them all and to have known it was coming without being able to make a difference must be heart-breaking. It made Jon feel inadequate, that he couldn’t defend his little brother the way he had promised to.

“is there no other way?” Jon finally asked.

Bran shook his head, and Jon felt like cursing.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“Jon you can’t.” Bran said pleadingly, “You need to stay for Rickon, you need to stay here to help the Wildlings.”

Every word Bran said was the truth, but it was a painful truth.

The thought of letting his brother who had seen just nine years travel towards the armies of the dead was horrific, yet the thought of abandoning baby Rickon once more was even more so.

“If you do this then you will not go unprepared.” Jon said roughly, hating himself for agreeing to it. “You will take people who know what the other side of the Wall is like, you will take provisions enough for months.”

He swallowed roughly, even as Bran thanked him. He did not want to be thanked for allowing his brother to go to his almost certain death.

“And,” Jon interjected, as a thought occurred to him, “You shall be the one to tell Sansa and your uncle of your quest.”

At the look on Bran’s face, he hadn’t thought just how distraught his mission would make their family that was still half a continent away.

Good, maybe it would be another incentive to fight to come back.

* * *

“You… you’re going too?” Normally Jon would have hated the way his voice cracked as he spoke but he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Aye Jon Snow, I’m no use down here, not with these fancy lords and prissy manners. Better that I do something that might make a difference.” Ygritte said, looking at him with something akin to pity in her eyes, even as she continued to tighten the straps of her pack. “Besides, they need someone who has lived in the True North with them, they’ll move much quicker and safer with me there.”

Her reasoning made sense; he especially couldn’t complain about someone else helping to guard Bran but he selfishly didn’t want Ygritte to leave. They might not have spent so long together since finding his brothers, but that didn’t mean his feelings for her were any less real.

“Aye, that they will.” He managed to choke out.

Ygritte put down her bow on the bench and moved so her hands were on either side of his face, “Now you listen good Jon Snow, don’t you pine away for me. If someone else takes your fancy while I’m gone go for it, I’d rather you be happy than make yerself miserable out of a sense of loyalty to me when I might already be dead.”

She didn’t let go of his face until he nodded, then grabbed the back of his head and pulled him in for a deep kiss. Jon flailed his arms around slightly before moving t settle them on her waist, allowing her to direct how deep the kiss was. He began to melt into it slightly and had all but forgotten where they were when he heard the noise that all elder siblings dread.

“Ugh Jon, that’s disgusting,” Bran said from the sledge he was strapped, “Do you have to do that here?”

Sometimes Jon really wondered why he had missed his little siblings being around. He manfully refrained from commenting on the way Bran’s eyes lit up whenever he saw Meera or Jojen Reed, he wasn’t yet feeling quite that vindictive.

He reluctantly moved away from Ygritte to fuss around Bran, tucking the furs further around his body.

“Remember to keep Summer close, and if everything suddenly goes quiet you run and you hide and you don’t stop until the birds start to sing again. Do you promise me that?”

Bran looked a little like he wanted to roll his eyes but refrained from it, “I promise Jon. Can you give Sansa and Arya and extra hug from me please when you see them?”

“Aye, I can do that.” Jon wrapped his arms around Bran in as tight a hug as he could manage, “You come home to us safe, alright?”

He stood before the threat of tears became a reality and watched as his brother and his companions ventured into the lands beyond the Wall until they were but specks in the distance and Rickon tugged on his hand to take him inside.

“Come on Jon! Tormund said he’d tell me the bear story if I came and got you for dinner and I haven’t heard that one before!” Rickon said as he pulled on Jon.

Jon reached down to swing Rickon up onto his hip, “Alright little prince, I’m coming, wouldn’t ant you to miss out on story time now would we.”

He didn’t look back as he entered the keep, his brother giggling as he poked him in the stomach.


	6. Sansa

It wasn’t long after her impromptu coronation that when Sansa retreated to the tent that had been set aside for her one evening she was startled when a slim hand pulled her tent flap ever so slightly to the side and a clear voice called out to her. “Your Grace, might we enter?”

She called out her assent and watched as the Ladies Leonette and Ellaria entered, followed by the Lady Tyene who was holding a bundle of cloth.

“Please be seated,” Sansa said, gesturing to the simple folding chairs that graced her tent. The ladies sat, but not before bobbing a curtesy each to her, a strange sight for one who was so recently a hostage.

“We come with a gift for you, Your Grace,” Lady Leonette said, gesturing towards the cloth bundle, “Ser Brynden asked us to make garb appropriate for your station.”

Lady Tyene held up the cloth, to reveal three gowns, each one with split skirts for riding and in a colour of her house, they had little adornment yet still well made.

They grey one was passed to her and she ran a finger down the soft lambswool skirts.

“These are beautiful, thank you.” Sansa said, trying not to allow her voice to choke up with the emotion she felt.

“You are very welcome your Grace,” Ellaria said, “It was a pleasure to make you something to wear other than those gowns the Lannisters forced you into. We had to guess at your size unfortunately, would you be willing to try them on so that we can make any final adjustments?”

Sansa swallowed the tears she felt rising at the motherly tone, “I would be honoured to, my ladies.”

She stood and allowed Ellaria to unlace her gown, letting it fall to the floor so she stood merely in her shift.

She stepped into the dress when offered and allowed them to raise it, it was a little loose around the bodice, but fit well enough in the legs and arms. The ladies moved around her, fluttering and clucking as they pinned and marked the fabric until it fit her perfectly.

“We shall leave a little space around the bodice I think, larger hems and seams than is usual I think, for you have not yet finished growing and now that the bastard king isn’t restricting your meals you will hopefully fill out a little more.” Lady Leonette said, in a no-nonsense tone that was reminiscent of Lady Olenna.

The other two dresses quickly underwent the same treatment and then she was bundled back into her old gown.

“We should have these finished by morning Your Grace, and we’ll draw up a pattern so we can make some more using the rest of the material Ser Brynden bought.” Lady Ellaria and Lady Leonette bundles the dresses back up, mindful of the pins in them and left the tent, leaving Sansa alone with Lady Tyene.

“Your Grace, undoubtedly you have heard of mine and my sisters reputation,” Lady Tyene said, kneeling before Sansa, she waited for Sansa to nod before continuing, “I would offer you my spear, to be your protector from now until you no longer have need of me.”

“Are you offering to be my sworn shield?” Sansa asked quietly, not quite believing her ears.

“I am your Grace, if you will have me. I would be the first of your queensguard should you wish.”

Sans swallowed heavily; this was something she had never expected.

“I would be honoured Lady Tyene.”

Lady Tyene unsheathed the sword she carried and offered it up to Sansa.

“I will shield you back and wield my sword in your defence. I swear to act in a such a manner that brings honour to you and your house. I pledge my life to you, for you. My sword is yours Queen Sansa, from this day until my last day. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

Sansa placed her hands upon the blade, “And I vow that you shall always have meat and mead at my table and in my home, that I shall ask no service of you that may bring you dishonour. I accept your oath, Lady Tyene of House Martell. So I swear by the old gods and the new.”

Lady Tyene rose from her position and sheathed her blade. “Thank you, Your Grace. You honour me and my House with your acceptance.”

“I will ask my Lady, that when we find my sister, you guard her as well. And if you could teach her how to fight, I would be grateful, it is something she has always wished to learn and I would give her what little happiness I can.”

Because they would find Arya, Sansa refused to lose another sibling. 

* * *

Sansa knelt before the Weirwood; one of the few left below the neck, hidden amongst the great trees of the forest; savouring the sight of one after so long in a false godswood. A sense of peace filled her, but purpose as well, a sense of what she should do and where she should go next. It helped to fade how much it had been completely overwhelming to have so many kneel to her, to have them celebrate her. She would join the camp once more, don her crown again, in a while, before then she just wished for some time to truly take in all that had happened since the Dornish had arrived at the Red Keep and finally be able to pray properly.

Her eyes closed as she prayed, prayed for success in her campaign, prayed for prosperity for her kingdom, prayed for safety for what was left of her family.

The soft pad of footsteps joined her in front of the tree but Sansa ignored them to finish her prayers just as she ignored the damp seeping in through the knees of her skirt, ignored the wind tangling her hair around her face.

When her prayers were finished, she opened her eyes and stood once more, she had all but forgotten the footsteps she had heard so she jumped when a wet nose pressed into her palm.

Sansa turned and gasped, before her stood two creatures she had never expected to see again, healthy and hale despite the fact she knew both were supposed to be dead.

“Lady? Grey-wind?”

The direwolves snuffled and Lady presses her golden snout into Sansa’s palm again, searching for ear scratches the same way she had as a pup.

For the first time since the crown was placed upon her brow Sansa felt light again, she sank once more to the floor and allowed the pair to cuddle in close. Tears slipped down her cheeks at the sheer sense of home she felt, like she was whole once more, like her brother was watching over her again.

The sun was low in the sky when she could drag herself up from beneath the comforting weight of the wolves, and her entire walk back to the camp she was shadowed by them, one on either side like a pair of warriors sworn to her service.

“Your Grace!” Ser Garlan hurried over to her as she emerged from the trees, stopping short as Lady and Grey-Wind emerged behind her like beasts of legend.

A flash of fear filled his eyes and those of the other men she passed as she made her way to her uncles’ tent.

“Uncle?” She called, waiting outside the closed entrance flaps.

“Sansa!” He pulled opened the flaps, concern in his voice, “I had nearly sent out a search for you, you were gone so long- good gods!”

Sansa felt a little joy at the awe on her uncle’s face, “The gods have blessed me uncle, Lady and Grey-wind joined me when I was at prayer.”

Brynden sank to his knees before her, “Then we are truly blessed dear niece, the gods honour us and your rule.”

He patiently allowed himself to be sniffed by the wolves, did not flinch even when Greywind went close to his face. Sansa supposed he had a little experience from before, from Robb, but she was still surprised by his fearlessness.

Lady let out a soft woof and licked his cheek, the way she had as a pup when she found someone she liked. Sansa felt tears fill her eyes, for all she trusted her uncle for freeing her, she had still held onto a kernel of mistrust born of her trust being broken so many times in the Red Keep, but with Lady’s reaction that kernel disappeared. The wolves had always had good sense and she would never ignore what they told her of a person again.

* * *

“Your Grace!” The call from outside her tent roused Sansa from the embroidery she was doing in her brief spare moment. It was difficult for her to find time for herself, what with the sheer amount of work being a queen entailed, even with all the help her uncle had provided.

She placed the dress down carefully attempting not to knock out the still threaded needle, she hoped the issue wouldn’t take too long as she could not wear an unfinished gown and was in need of one with at least some adornment for the more formal occasions.

Sansa pulled the crown from the stand she placed it on when not needed, it was a heavy piece of metal that she tried not to wear unless it was necessary. Being disturbed from the little time to herself she had meant that the issue was important enough her crown was necessary.

One thing she did not expect when she stepped out into the pale light of twilight was two dirty figures forced to their knees, swords pointing at both their throats.

“A few of the sentries found them in the woods Your Grace” Ser Garlan said, his hand placed atop the hilt of his sword.

“Ser Jaime, you’re a long way from the Red Keep.” Sansa said in a dry voice, “I’m afraid however, I do not recognise your companion.”

“My name is Brienne of Tarth, Your Grace.” The Kingslayer’s companion spoke up, and it was only then that Sansa realised they were actually a woman, “I was sworn to your mother.”

That threw Sansa a little, she hadn’t expected to hear anything like that.

“And what are you doing in such illustrious company Lady Brienne?”

The lady winced, “I was to return Ser Jaime to his father in exchange for yourself and your sister, Your Grace. Lady Catelyn entrusted me with that task, in the hope of getting you both back to her.”

“I see.” Sansa said slowly, “I am sorry to tell you that you have obviously failed in your quest my lady. For your service to my mother though, I thank you. If I can aid you in some way, in repayment for your service, please tell me and I shall do whatever is in my power to help.”

She nodded towards the soldier aiming a sword at the lady and he stepped back to allow her to stand.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lady Brienne stood, “Might I ask, Your Grace, that you provide Ser Jaime with medical aid? We had a run in with the Boltons and he was injured defending me.”

It was not a request Sansa had anticipated, “Of course, my lady. Lady Tyene, could you go fetch the Maester please? I will not have it said that we deprive our prisoners of medical aid.”

The Kingslayer started to laugh at that, a rusty kind of laugh that sounded painful, “You are far more gracious than your brother already Queen in the North. Or am I to be thrown into a cage again?”

Sansa met his eyes coolly; they were glazed with fever and so she tried not to take offense on her brother’s behalf. “Have him taken to a tent and bathed, if would do us no good if Lord Tywin’s precious son died of fever in our care.”

She watched as he was all but dragged away by men in the Tully colours, her words were truthful, he would be an excellent hostage to have during their campaign.

“Lady Brienne, should you wish to remain with us a tent and hose will be found for you. While you think that over, Ser Donnel would you be so kind as to show Lady Brienne to a hot meal?”

Sansa waited for her bidding to be done, it was still a little strange to see grown men do as she said without question. She turned to her uncle as the rest of the men dispersed and looked at him questioningly.

“You made a good call there, Your Grace,” Brynden said with a soft smile, “Whilst we hold the Kingslayer none of the hostages the Freys hold, including your uncle, can be used against us. Although perhaps you shouldn’t have been so quick to free the Lady Brienne just because she mentioned your mother.”

Sansa swallowed, “You think I might have made a mistake there?”

Her uncle placed a hand gently on her shoulder, “I think it could have gone wrong, but Lady Brienne is the person to make that mistake on. She is perhaps one of the most Northern people I’ve met despite being from the Stormlands.”

She smiled at him the best she could, “Thank you uncle, will you accompany me later to check on our prisoner?”

A smiled a smile so wolfish that he might have been mistaken for a Stark “Of course I will dear one.”

* * *

It was not until Riverrun lay before them that the true magnitude of what was to happen finally hit Sansa, she had lived through but one battle, one that still haunted her nightmares, and she was to condemn her subjects to endure one. It felt wrong and yet she had no other choice, the Freys would never surrender.

“We will make camp here my lords,” She ordered, as her uncle had suggested. The plan had ben mostly his idea, he actually knew the castle and surrounding areas after all, and he had experience in battle she most certainly did not, but she had to be seen to be the leader, the figurehead. One day she would be able to do this without being told what to do, but that time was far away, for now she was content to heavily rely on the advice and help of her uncle.

They easily had the numbers to take out the Frey forces surrounding the keep, but the presence of some of her bannermen among the forces made them hesitant to just attack outright. She knew that they had been blackmailed into it, just one look at the actual size of the troops they had sent told her that, the severe separation between their banners and those of the Lannisters and Freys also made it evident.

They waited for the scouts to return before planning anything concrete, the leaders of each section of her armies gathered in the command tent awaiting her words.

“Your Grace, they have your uncle at the front of their camp, in full view of the walls with a noose around his neck.” One scout reported to them, and Sansa felt her heart clench a little at it.

She couldn’t let her uncle die, not when they were so close to him.

“What about the division of the camp? Are the Freys close to any of the non-traitor Houses?” Sansa questioned, keeping her voice deliberately calm.

“No, Your Grace, the Freys and Lannisters are on the West side of the Red Fork, the other Houses on the East.”

That was an unexpected boon, perhaps they would be able to reduce the amount of blood spilt.

“Have we had any response to our request for a parlay?” Sansa asked.

“Aye Your Grace,” Her uncle responded, a proud glint to his eye, “Lannister has agreed to a parlay, I doubt we’ll be successful with our demands but it might help our cause with the other Houses.”

“While the parlay is taking place, I want the men to get in position, spread through the woods and ready for an ambush. Our plans do not change from those we discussed on the way here, if men surrender then good, we want as few losses as we can. My wolves will be accompanying your battalion Uncle, I shall be safe enough here with my guard and the Dornish.”

It was not something they had discussed but Sansa felt it was the right thing to do, her dreams had been full of a pack of wolves led by direwolves recently and she somehow knew that they would have a part to play in the battle to come.

“As you wish, Your Grace. Who will you be taking to the parlay with us?”

‘Us’ because her uncle would never leave her to face the Lannisters alone. She would have cried if not for the people she was surrounded by.

“Lord Piper and Lord Bracken will remain here; we don’t want their appearance to cause any problems for their sons being held hostage. Ser Donnel and Lord Robbet shall accompany us, along with my sworn-shield the Lady Tyene. We want them to underestimate us. Ser Garlan, Prince Oberyn, I would ask you to remain and prepare for the assault. Should treachery occur then I would ask you all to support the rule of my brother Prince Rickon and his regent, our brother Prince Jon.”

She did not expect treachery, but the Freys had already broken Guest Right so she could not be too careful.

The lords bowed to her, if they felt any displeasure at her words they did not show it.

She swept out of the tent to prepare for the parlay, she needed to send the right message and if there was one thing Cersei had taught her it was that clothing was an easy way to send a message.

Tyene helped her into the grey gown she had just finished embroidering, weirwood leaves and willow boughs twined around the skirts and sleeves, a visual symbol of the two kingdoms she claimed. Her hair was braided into the simple styles of the North and the crown placed atop her head. A wolfskin cloak that had once belonged to Robb, found amongst the detritus of the Tully camp, and she looked the part of queen, her young age disguised by the outfit.

The looks of awe she received as she rode to the parlay point were both heartening and uncomfortable. The amount of faith they placed in her was immense and Sansa was often reminded that she was just a girl of three and ten.

She had to resist from snarling like Lady or Grey-Wind at the people in front of her at the parlay, the knowledge that they’d had a hand in the death of her mother and brother made her veins fill with rage.

She had been briefed on who would be there, who the leaders of the army besieging her family’s home were.

“Ser Daven Lannister, Ser Ryman Frey.” She inclined her head just short of the amount required to be polite. By the bristling of Ser Ryman her insult was noticed.

“Lady Sansa.” Ser Daven said in response, causing Sansa’s own bannermen to bristle.

“Have care how you speak to our Queen, Lannister.” Ser Donnel spat.

Sansa raised a hand and he instantly quieted, “We are here Ser Daven, because your cousin told me that you are a sensible man. Surrender now and I promise no harm will come to any man not involved in the Red Wedding.”

There was a pause before Ser Ryman started laughing, an ugly, weaselly thing. “You Starks are all alike, you think you are so powerful and invincible but you bleed like regular men. And you don’t even have a direwolf by your side, not that having one did your brother any good.”

Sansa sent a warning look to her men even as she quelled an angry comment of her own. “It seems you have made your decision Ser Ryman, a pity as I was looking forward to seeing the expression on your face when your grandfather’s head hits the floor.”

There was a begrudging hint of respect in Ser Daven’s eyes when she turned back to him. She gestured to Ser Donner who carried with him a lock of hair and a stained Lannister lion they had removed from the Kingslayer’s clothes.

“In our custody we currently hold your cousin, Ser Jaime, better known as the Kingslayer. Should anything happen to my Uncle Edmure it will happen threefold to Lord Tywin’s precious son.” She threw the evidence down in front of the stunned Lannister and then turned her gaze to her bannermen behind him. “My offer stands still, surrender and lay down your arms and you shall not be harmed if you had no part in the Red Wedding.”

She hoped they would take her offer; she would rather not kill those forced into disloyalty.

Ser Devan managed to rouse himself from the study of the items before him, “A counter offer, Queen Sansa, relinquish your crown and surrender yourself. No harm will come to you.”

“And what of my men? My lords? What of them?”

Ser Daven’s gaze turned from hers, “Those who are traitors would face the king’s justice.”

Sansa squared her shoulders and allowed her expression to take on a frosty tint, “Then Ser Daven, I must respectfully decline your offer.” Her voice was the winter itself, “Do you decline my own offer?”

She barely waited for his statement that he did before turning to leave the parlay, uncaring of the insult it offered to the Lannisters and Freys. They rode back to their camp silently, the first words spoken said when they were back in the command tent, the lords looking at her expectantly.

“Send out the messengers, the parlay failed. We attack in an hour.”

* * *

Sansa had been left under the care of her sworn shield and the Dornish forces to watch the battle from afar, there was no place for her in the midst of battle and she was not like Arya, she had no desire for there to be.

She had sent Tyene off to check on the preparations for after the battle, the cooks and the medical tents working hard to ensure that the aftermath of the battle went smoothly. She had no need for her shield to be constantly by her side, not in the centre of her own camp surrounded by people who would lay down their lives for her own without question.

She had settled into her tent, intent on using her time productively to finish reading through the report Jon had sent of his progress with the negotiations with the King-Beyond-the-Wall; it wasn’t a report she had ever thought she would read, the Wildlings always being more figures in Old nan’s stories that people she had thought of as real.

A presence nudged at her mind as she read, one as familiar as her own thoughts. She allowed it in and _instantly found herself running, leaves crunching under her paws and the presence of a pack around her._

_Her brother to one side, her sister to the other, and cousins all around. She tilted her head back and howled, a call picked up by the others surrounding her and she could smell the fear up ahead of her._

_She burst out of the trees, her claws extended as far as they could and leapt at a man dressed in silver and grey, her sister did the same to a man in gold and red to her left. Her brother just growled and stalk forwards, looking for someone in particular to sink his teeth into._

_She had no such particularities. She tore out the throats of men in blue-and-grey and red-and-gold alike, leaving only those not garbed in such a way._

_Her sister was the same, although she seemed to take a greater pleasure in ripping out the throats of the red-and-gold than any other._

_A feral snarl filled her mouth, her snout flecked with blood, as she got ready to pounce upon a horse and its rider, she relished the spike of fear in his scent, savoured the terror on his face, even as he raised his shield in a futile attempt to stop her. Her jaws widened and she pounced, knocking th man to the dirt, her fangs ripped into the soft flesh at his neck and she delighted in the savoury taste of the blood filling her mouth._

_She stalked through the panicking men, taking out many, as her cousins did the same. A cousin fell to the blade of one man, but he was soon taken down by another of the pack._

_Her brother was up ahead, heading towards a weasel faced man who looked like he had seen a ghost. The towers on his shield trembled in his grip and she got a vindictive pleasure out of the scent of piss that filled the air._

_The man babbled something but she did not care to listen, she cared more for the scream he made as her brother took his time killing him. The scream rang out and around her the men still living slowly put their weapons down, she growled out to her pack to leave them be, to not kill anyone who had placed their weapon down._

_Soon enough her brother was the only one still causing any harm, the screams of his victim dying back into whimpers._

_The sound of steel clashing around them died back slowly until it stopped, men in red-and-blue and green-and-gold moved through the tents, gathering up those who had put their swords down and leading them away. She approved of that, there was no point in senseless death._

_She was just about to go look around the rest of the camp when she felt a hand on her shoulder and_-

Sansa’s eyes flew open with a gasp and she saw the worried face of Tyene in front of her.

“Your Grace? Are you alright?” The worry in Tyene’s voice was painful to hear, “Your eyes were completely white. Should I get the Maester?”

Sansa blinked, trying to readjust to her surroundings but Tyene’s words pierced through her confusion. “No! No, I’m quite all right, thank you. We should get ready; the battle is over and our presence will soon be needed.”

She could see the questions in Tyene’s eyes but her shield did not ask any of them, she merely nodded and did as Sansa had said. It was a good thing she hadn’t asked any of the questions as Sansa did not think she could answer them, not without sounding crazy at the least.

* * *

Sansa rode into the remains of the Lannister and Frey camp, her shield to her side and an honour guard of the Dornish around her, the crown upon her head. She was greeted by Lord Piper and a group of his men when led her through the crushed tents to the entrance to Riverrun and the platform that still stood there.

First, she was led to the captured Daven Lannister, who had been pushed to his knees in front of her, she commanded that he be taken to the cells and kept under watch until she had time to decide what to do with him. Then she was led to the River Lords who had been a part of the sieging force, they knelt of their own accord when they saw her.

“Rise my lords, all will be forgiven. We will storm the Twins together to rescue your trapped sons.”

They murmured thanks and bowed over her hand, relief on all their faces. Sansa had no wish to be a cruel queen, loyalty came easier with love after all.

The final person was the one she wanted to see most, one who was thankfully mostly unharmed.

“Uncle Edmure, I am pleased to see you are relatively unharmed.” Sansa said, gazing upon the thin and dirty form of her uncle, wishing to hug him but not wanting to scare him further. “Rest now, and recuperate from your imprisonment. We have time.”

Edmure shakily bowed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sansa wanted to step down and tell him he had no need to call her that, but his eyes had begun to glaze over with exhaustion and the end of an adrenaline rush. She nodded to Tyene, who gently took hold of his arm and steered him towards his chambers in the keep as they had previously discussed.

A bath awaited him there, if her orders had been fully obeyed, and a plate of plain but hearty food. She would have him recover from his ordeal the best he could, hopefully without straining himself too much in the name of decorum.

But she had to trust that her people would care for her uncle, she could not tend to him herself, not matter how much she might wish for the chance to connect with her family. She had a duty to her people, to check that they had food and medical care, to take stock of the numbers they had lost.

Brynden accompanied her, more aware of what needed to be done and so teaching her without making it obvious. He guided her through the tasks that needed to be done, the appearances she needed to make, the words she needed to say. She planned to announce him as her Hand, to legitimise the role he was already doing.

They had prisoners to settle in the cells, to decide whether to ransom or put on trial for treason, that would be finalised though when the bloodlust from battle was gone.

Sansa personally saw to it that the wolf pack received meat from their stores, a pitiful thanks it may have been but a thanks nonetheless. The battle would not have gone so smoothly without their assistance, Sansa knew, and she hoped that perhaps it was an omen for the future. There had been another direwolf during the battle, she knew that, but the wolf had disappeared back into the forest. She suspected that she knew who the direwolf might be and so wished her luck on her mission to find the rest of her pack, she knew that if the direwolf succeeded she would likely see her again anyway.

She ventured into some of the medial tents, offering a soothing word or comforting hand to the men who lay injured there. She knew it would be good for them to see her, to see the physical reminder of what they fought for.

By the time Sansa finally entered Riverrun the sun was low in the sky, she was exhausted, and her skirts were splattered with both mud and blood.

Her Uncle Edmure stood in the courtyard, looking better for having a wash and something to eat, he looked less like he would collapse, although still unsteady.

He bowed as she approached him and in a surprisingly strong voice said, “Riverrun is yours, Your Grace.”

* * *

“There is someone you should meet dear one,” Brynden said. He led her along corridors and up flights of stairs to a chamber containing a single girl. He left without saying another word, leaving the two staring at one another.

“Your Grace,” The demure, mousey haired girl moved first and curtsied to Sansa.

Sansa felt like she should know who she was, despite never seeing her before in her life. She looked the girl up and down, she was a few scant years older than herself, around the age Robb should have been.

It was the thought of Robb that clued her into the girl’s identity.

“I should perhaps be the one to curtesy to you, Queen Jeyne.” Sansa said, gently placing a hand on her shoulders to make Queen Jeyne look into her eyes.

“I lost my crown before you gained yours, Your Grace.” Queen Jeyne said, in a soft voice. “I am pleased to bow before you as Queen.”

Sansa decided to ignore all protocol and instead pulled the girl against her, “You have no need to bow to me, you are my sister, no matter how brief your time with my brother might have been. I insist you call me Sansa.”

Jeyne remained stiff in her arms for a moment before all but melting into the contact. “I would like that... Sansa. You must call me Jeyne in return.”

Sansa stepped back and pulled a handkerchief out from her sleeve so Jeyne could wipe away the tears in her eyes.

“I would like to offer you a place in my court, your brother and sister as well, if they would like.”

Jeyne dabbed at her face, “I have no skills to offer you, I’m no great warrior like your swornshield, I’ve no great political mind.”

Sansa placed a hand on her arm comfortingly, “You are the Dowager Lady Stark, even if you refuse the title of queen, you will always have a place at Winterfell for as long as the Starks draw breath. And if you should like to work then I am need of someone to be a Lady-in-Waiting, to be a companion.”

“I would be honoured to Sansa.” Jeyne said, in a quiet voice that seemed to have gained a glimmer of hope. “I would ask something of you, my mother may be a traitor but she is my mother. I would ask you to show her mercy.”

It seemed like it had been an age since she had been in Jeyne’s position, asking for mercy for a parent accused of treason, but Sansa had sworn she would not be like Joffrey, she would keep her word.

“I will show her mercy, the Lady Sybelle will not die.”

Her uncle might have cautioned her against those words had he been there, but Sansa refused to act as Joffrey or Cersei might she would show Sybelle Westerling mercy, if only for the affection Robb had felt for Jeyne.


	7. Arya

She was nearly in the foothills of the Vale when she heard the first whispers. They were passing through a village that was largely unaffected by the war, the Hound having sent her off to buy food while he found ale.

“Disappeared over night… The King was livid… Rumours been she’s been crowned…”

The last murmur had been what caught her attention, who had been crowned? Arya knew of no ‘she’ with any claim to the throne, unless the Targaryen she’d heard her father mention once had made a bid for the crown.

“Excuse me,” She said, putting on her most pathetic face, “I couldn’t help but overhear? Who are you talking about?”

The woman she asked looked at her with some suspicion but answered her, “We were talking about the Young Wolf’s sister, Sansa Stark. They say she disappeared from Kings Landing in the middle of the night and we’ve heard rumours that some of the lords have crowned her to be our queen.”

Arya couldn’t quite believe her ears, Sansa a queen? Spoilt silly Sansa? And why wasn’t it Bran or Rickon who had taken Robb’s place, why Sansa of all people?

“Why though? Surely one of the princes would have been crowned instead?” She asked and the woman’s eyes softened.

“Didn’t you hear? The princes were killed when Winterfell burned. One of the Greyjoys did it.”

Arya felt her stomach drop, Bran and Rickon were dead? Dead like Robb and mother and father? It was just her and Sansa and Jon left?

She stumbled away from the woman, uncaring of how it might look, tears filling her eyes. She ran, ran towards the horse that they had been using and buried her face in its neck.

“Oi,” The Hound said when he came back, stinking of ale, to find her there with none of the food he had sent her for and her face still buried into the hair of the horse’s neck. “Where the fuck is the food I sent you to get?”

She lifted her face, uncaring of the redness of her eyes, “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Did you know that my brothers are dead and our home is gone?”

She was probably mistaken because she could have sworn she saw the Hound’s features soften slightly, “I knew. It happened before the Blackwater. How the fuck did you just find out?”

Arya tilted her chin up, “I heard some people in the market talking about Sansa. They called her a queen!”

She knew she wasn’t mistaken when she saw the Hound’s eyes widen. “They said what? Did they marry her to the little cunt after all?”

Arya could see something very bad happening if she didn’t manage to diffuse his anger, she needed him still, no matter how much she might hate it.

“They didn’t say that. They said she’d been named queen in Robb’s place.”

Clegane’s face froze for a moment, and as soon as the moment was gone he was all business, moving faster than Arya had ever seen him.

“Get on the horse.” He grunted to her.

She scrambled to do as he said, unsure about the mood he was in and for once not waning to anger him.

“Where are we going?” She finally asked as they headed out of the village, back the way they had come.

“We’re going to find your sister. If she’s queen she’ll be better able to ransom you than an aunt you’ve never met.”

Arya felt like there was probably more to his decision than he was saying but, contrary to popular opinion, she did know when not to needle people into telling her more than they wanted. Besides she didn’t want the Hound to change his mind when she might finally have the chance to see a sibling again.

Even if it was Sansa.

* * *

There were dangers of course, in going back the way they had come. Raiders still roamed the Riverlands, and there were soldiers on both sides that would be happy to capture them, if for different reasons.

They had to skulk around villages and settlements, meaning they ate only what they could find instead of what they could buy. Arya’s stomach growled near constantly but she didn’t complain, couldn’t when she could hear the Hound’s stomach making the same noises.

The deeper they got into the Riverlands, the worse the situation got. They started to see decaying bodies hanging from trees, always dressed in the livery of the Lannisters or Freys or Boltons.

It was a grim sight, and the smell often made Arya feel like she wanted to be sick, especially when she heard the buzz of bluebottles or the caws of fat crows surrounding the corpses.

They had passed through a copse of trees thick with corpses, a sight which made even the Hound turn green.

It was an unspoken agreement that they stopped as some as thy were out of scent and sight of the copse, neither of them feeling up to travelling much further that day.

There had been no signs of life for miles, and the corpses had been sufficiently decayed that they were perhaps more lax than they should have been with their precautions. They kept a watch overnight, but it was hard when the trees were so quiet and the fire so warm.

Arya’s eyes started to droop and while she fought valiantly to keep them open she didn’t quite manage to stay alert.

Not alert enough to notice the men who had crept up on them until a hand was over her mouth and a blindfold over her eyes.

She could hear Clegane shouting and cursing as he tried to fight off whoever had attacked them, but then she heard a loud thump and he went quiet.

Arya was more scared than she had been since she had escaped Harrenhal, she had no idea who had them and her captor/protector had been quieted.

She felt herself slung over a shoulder, her hands and feet bound after her attempts at kicking out, her yells stopped by a piece of cloth shoved in her mouth.

She didn’t give up though, she wouldn’t let herself, she was merely biding her time until she knew who her captors were.

They would have to take the blindfold off at some point.

* * *

When the blindfold was removed from her eyes Arya screamed.

The face in front of her was hideous, its skin was the yellow of curdled milk, its hair brittle and white, long unhealed scratches ran down each cheek, and there was a red gash across the throat. But that was not the worst of it.

The worst was that the face was undeniably the face of her mother.

“Arya.” The creature wearing her mother’s face croaked, reaching out with skeletal fingers.

Arya flinched back, uncaring of anything but getting away from the nightmare before her. She didn’t care how that might make her look, didn’t care about being strong, she just wanted to get away.

A set of arms prevented her from moving, their grip keeping her facing the monster with her mother’s face.

The creature gestured to one of the men who carried forwards a wooden chest, stained with blood on one side and mildew on the other.

The skeletal fingers stopped reaching for Arya and instead entered the chest, they pulled out an object and Arya nearly vomited at the reverence on the creature’s face.

It was a crown, made of iron and bronze and coated near completely in rusty brown flakes that Arya realised to be blood. Robb’s blood.

She was sick at that realisation, she retched up bile and water, leaving a puddle by her feet. The man holding her jumped away from the pool of sick allowing Arya to take another step back from the nightmare made flesh.

The crown was thrust towards her and Arya flinched back – she didn’t want her dead brother’s crown, especially not one still covered in his blood!

“Take it… queen.” The creature rasped and Arya finally managed to find her voice.

“Mother, Sansa is queen now, she managed to get away. That’s where we were going. To Sansa, mother.”

The nightmare stopped reaching for her and Arya breathed a quick sigh of relief.

“Sansa?” It croaked.

Arya attempted to smile encouragingly, “Yes Sansa, mother, Sansa is queen,”

“Take… crown… Sansa.”

The crown was placed back in the box, much to Arya’s relief, she would be happy if she never saw it again.

“Take… me… Sansa.” The croaked words were directed to a man in a dirty yellow cloak at her side who bowed with a flourish more suited to court than the cave they were in.

“As you wish, my lady. And what of the Hound? Should we kill him?”

Arya didn’t know why she did it, she hated the man, had wanted him dead just weeks before, and yet. He had kept her safe, had fed her, had kept Sansa safe.

“Wait!” She called, causing heads to turn to her, “Don’t kill him. He, he kept Sansa and I safe, in his own way.”

She knew she wasn’t imagining the incredulous looks sent her way by everyone but the monster. But the sword was lowered from Clegane’s throat, even if his hadn’t remained bound.

“As you wish, princess.” Yellow-cloak said, and Arya felt like she wanted to scream again at the title. She hadn’t ever wanted to be a princess, that had always been Sansa, she had been like Bran, she had wanted to be a knight.

Maybe Sansa would let her become a knight? Or was she just being stupid, Sansa would probably make her wear a dress and marry a lord and sew and dance and sing and be a Lady.

But she wanted to go to Sansa anyway.

The Brotherhood all but meandered through the Riverlands, they seemed to have no set plan on where to go, merely telling Arya that the ‘Lord of light would provide’ when she asked them.

She was constantly on edge, expecting them to betray her as they had Gendry. Expecting to hear of another betrayal of her family. This meant she was exhausted when they finally bedded down, although she tried to refuse sleep in her watchfulness.

It wasn’t until a week into their travels when she finally slept deep, the exhaustion too great to keep her eyes open any longer.

_In her dreams she was hunting with her new pack, stalking through woodlands in the search of their prey. _

_There were new scents in her territory, ones she knew but that had belonged to her dead littermates. Scents that should not exist. _

_The scents got stronger the closer she got to the smell of humans, her pack normally stayed away from humans, they hurt her kind. But if the scents went close then so would she. _

_She didn’t have to in the end, she was in the thinning trees when they found her. A sister she had thought long gone and a brother she knew should be dead. _

_They growled at her when she took a step forward, growled at her to stay away from their human. She’d had a human once, before they left home, before she was chased away with stones and shouting. _

_Somehow, she understood them, understood what they were asking. Understood that they were asking her to bring her pack to help their human take her home back. The stone dwelling on the rivers that they avoided; they were asking her to take her pack there. To put them in danger. _

_But they made a compelling argument, the red-and-blue had never harmed her pack when they stayed away, not like the red-and-gold who hunted them for their skins, her pack would be safer with their human in charge. _

_And maybe if her siblings’ human was in charge her human might return. _

Arya awoke before she could make a decision, panting hard and able to see the mist of her breath in the cold morning air. She could hardly believe what she had just seen and yet she could.

She had never seen Riverrun in her life, but the castle she saw, flying Stark and Tully banners and surrounded by Lannister lions and Frey towers, matched every story her mother had told. Even more, it hadn’t looked the way that Arya had imagined it to be when she was younger, meaning it probably wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

She’d had dreams like that before, dreams that felt real, dreams where she was Nymeria, but none as clear as that had been. It was like she was being told something.

“Sansa is at Riverrun.” Was all she said when the Red Priest asked her why she was paler than normal.

For all it changed their direction, made them move quicker, she soon regretted it. The priest kept asking her how she knew of her sister’s movements, if she had seen it in the flames or whether it was some rumour she had managed to hear that the rest of them hadn’t.

Arya had eventually got so sick of his questions that she had snapped, she had turned to him and yelled that she had seen it through the eyes of her wolf.

A few of the Brotherhood had started to avoid her after that, whispering of witchcraft and Northern magic. Others had claimed she was making it up, that the things she had gone through had broken her mind.

Arya didn’t care, she didn’t care about the opinions of people who had sold her friend and who served the monster they called Lady Stoneheart.

She did, however, feel vindicated when they heard from a farmer that the siege of Riverrun had failed, that Queen Sansa’s forces had freed the castle and that the Frey commander had been killed by a direwolf.

Her dream had been truthful, and soon she would see her sister again in a hall that belonged to their family.

* * *

Arya never thought she would be so pleased to see her sister again.

But to see her sister sat at the head of the Great Hall at Riverrun, their Uncles on either side, sparked such joy she was surprised she didn’t float.

Lady Stoneheart was hidden beneath a hood, kept in the middle of their band to prevent undue panic. Arya herself was at the front, they had cleaned her up to try and make her more recognisable and she could pin point the moment Sansa realised who she was.

Her sister stood from her chair and flew down from the dais to her, uncaring of the shout of their great-uncle.

Sansa stopped just before her, her hands hovering as though she was unsure whether her touch would be welcomed. Arya barely thought before flinging herself at her older sister, wrapping her arms as tightly as she could, Sansa’s arms wrapped around her in return and Arya could feel her trembling slightly.

“Do I need to call you ‘Your Grace’ now?” Arya asked.

Sansa stepped back and let out a wet laugh, “No Arya, you never have to call me that.”

Arya looked around and saw that the hall had been emptied of all the other lords while they hugged, just their uncles and the brotherhood remaining.

“Arya, may I present to you our Uncles. Uncle Edmure, Uncle Brynden, my sister has returned.” Sansa said with a watery smile.

Arya quickly found herself pulled against a broad chest padded by a leather jerkin.

“Thank the Seven you have retuned dear child.” Brynden said, reluctantly letting her go so Edmure could hug her too.

Arya felt her resolve melting at the sheer safety they emanated, a sense she hadn’t felt in so very long.

She forced herself to step back, unwilling to do anything to break the moment but feeling she had to.

“I have someone with me. But, uhh, its not a pretty sight.”

The brotherhood parted to let Lady Stoneheart through and Arya resolutely did not look as the creature lowered its hood. From the paling of her Uncles’ faces and the slight hand that slipped into her own with a death grip, she had no need so as to know when the face was visible.

“Cat?” Edmure whispered with horror, his hand going to his mouth as though he was going to be sick.

“Traitor.” The nightmare rasped, and Arya could see her uncle take on a green tinge at those words.

“Cat? No, no, Cat its Edmure, your brother.” He tried again, but the nightmare could only rasp at him the word ‘traitor’.

Brynden pushed his nephew back so that he was out of the nightmare’s eyesight and seemed about to speak but Sansa beat him to it.

“Mother?” Her voice was faint and Arya squeezed her hand in comfort.

“Sansa… queen.” The monster with her mother’s face rasped, looking as pleased as Arya had ever seen it. A skeletal hand reached out and stroked Sansa’s soft cheek.

Arya was amazed that her sister could endure the touch, that she didn’t scream or cry or make a fuss about how disgusting it was.

Lady Stoneheart made a gesture and the box was brought out once more, this time to be presented to Sansa.

The crown was even more grim in the well-lit hall, but Sansa bore it well as the crown on her head was removed and the bloody one placed atop her hair instead.

What Arya supposed was supposed to be a smile crossed the nightmare’s face as it stepped back, looking at the crown that threatened to slip down past Sansa’s ears.

“Thank you for returning my sister to me,” Sansa said in a voice that hardly wavered, “We will arrange a reward in the morn, for now be welcome.”

Even though nothing was said their Uncle Brynden started to shepherd the men and the nightmare out of the hall, leaving Arya with Sansa and Edmure.

Sansa waited until the men had left the hall before removing the crown from her head and placing it into a cloth Edmure offered, she did not place her own crown on her head though, merely picked it up.

“Let’s find you a room and some new clothes Arya,” Edmure said kindly, placing a gentle hand on her back to steer her, “And we’ll arrange a celebration for your return. Won’t that be nice?”

He kept up the gentle chatter all the way to a room he said they had set aside in the hope of her turning up, and she basked in the safety she felt within the castle walls.

* * *

Her uncle had been right, new clothes and a proper bath had made her feel much more like herself. She had seen Sansa only briefly since the Great Hall, her sister too busy to be able to spend much time with her. Not that Arya had been idle, she had been bathed and scrubbed within an inch of her life and made to try on numerous outfits until she nearly screamed in frustration.

She had become so used to wearing breeches that dresses just felt wrong. Eventually her sister’s sworn-shield had taken pity and gone to find something different for her to wear.

Lady Tyene returned with a set of breeches and tunic in Tully red and blue, her smile soft as she had explained that they had belonged to her uncle when he was a boy. Arya savoured the softness of the fabric, so different to the roughspun she had been in for months.

And now she waited outside the Great Hall for her sister to announce her presence, more Arya Stark than Arry than she had been for a while.

“My lords,” Arya could not see Sansa from where she was hidden, but she could hear the command in her voice, “Tonight we will celebrate for one we thought lost has returned! Arya Stark has returned to us, unbroken by her ordeals!”

The lords cheered and Arya knew that was her cue to enter, she felt ridiculous doing so, ridiculous having all eyes on her even as she took a seat by her sister’s side.

It was strange to see all the hardened lords respond to her sister. Strange to see her sister in a commanding role instead of as a silly girl with her head in the clouds. Nearly as strange as it was to be clean and in clothes that fit her relatively well.

She picked at the food in front of her, knowing somehow that to eat too much of the rich food would make her unwell. Her uncle did the same thing on the other side of Sansa, she had heard he’d been imprisoned by the Freys, and from the look of him they were particularly nasty captors.

She curled into the cloak Sansa had wrapped around her shoulders earlier, into the heavy furs that if she concentrated really hard still smelled a little like Robb. It made being stared at easier, made her feel like her big brother was wrapping her in a hug as he had done so many times before.

Arya felt a soft squeeze to her leg and looked to see the soft, sad smile of Sansa directed her way, she smiled back as best she could, taking the comfort that her sister meant to offer. They would likely go back to bickering soon enough, but for now she was thankful to have Sansa there.

Thankful to no longer be a lone wolf.


	8. Sansa

Sansa had missed Arya like she missed all her siblings, she hadn’t missed Arya’s ability to find trouble everywhere however. And bringing the reanimated corpse of Catelyn Stark to Riverrun was perhaps the biggest load of trouble Arya had ever managed to find.

She had refused to stay in the castle, preferring to remain with her band of outlaws. The outlaws were another headache on top of that, Sansa really should hang them for their unlawful behaviour, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Not when it meant hanging what remained of her mother.

It had been through sheer force of will that she hadn’t screamed when the rotting fingers had touched her cheek or when the bloodstained crown had been placed on her head.

They had hidden the existence of Lady Stoneheart as much as they could, not wanting to tarnish the memory of her. She had been loved by the Riverlands and the North and to know what she had been twisted into by death would have caused heartbreak across Sansa’s kingdom.

It already caused heartbreak among their family.

Sansa wanted to be pleased that her mother had returned to her, wanted to celebrate the way she should, and yet. Lady Stoneheart wasn’t her mother, her mother wouldn’t have decried her own brother a traitor, wouldn’t have hanged men based on their livery without a care for their actions.

A letter from the Vale held her attention, it had been her Uncle’s suggestion, to try and form an alliance. She had contacted her aunt, but also certain lords her uncle thought would be sympathetic to her offer, and a letter addressed directly to her cousin.

Brynden had told her a lot about her cousin, how he loved to be babied but also wanted to be treated as an adult, and so Sansa had thought to appeal to him directly with flattery and suggestions. While slightly underhand, and she felt guilty for attempting manipulation, it was what both her uncles had said was best.

She needed the Vale on her side, could not easily defend her borders on three fronts, what with the reports coming from the Wall as well.

The letter in question was from Lord Baelish, a shock to be sure, although she remembered talk of him being sent to secure the Vale when she had still been in Kings Landing. Since being away from him she had noticed even more of the manipulations he had tried on her, some having been pointed by her uncle or shield.

She was hesitant to trust any letter from him, especially as he titled himself Lord Paramount of the Trident, a title that rightfully belonged to her uncle and had been bestowed upon him by Joffrey. It was likely he would desire a title of the same power or more if an alliance was to take hold with his presence there, and Sansa did not have such a title to offer.

Or not one she would ever be willing to entertain.

She needed to speak to her uncles about what she should do, she could recognise when she was out of her depth and dealing with Littlefinger was most assuredly one of those times.

* * *

Brynden and Edmure had both suggested a solution for the problem that Sansa was hesitant to take further, it involved Arya and wouldn’t be something her sister would be happy with. And she didn’t want to fight again so soon after getting her back.

Not the type of fight that a suggestion of betrothal would prompt anyway.

But they needed the Vale if they were to be secure.

It was a horrible conundrum but maybe if she explained just how important the betrothal was, how important the alliance was, Arya would agree, or at least not hate her for it.

Sansa placed her head on the cool wood of her desk for a moment, hoping it would ease the headache she had. It didn’t work.

She dragged herself out of her chair to find her sister, planning on heading to the training yards first, where Tyene was giving Arya the lessons she had promised.

The training yards were so different and yet so familiar to the ones at Winterfell, if she squinted, she could almost see her brothers training under the eye of Ser Rodrick, her father observing them from a walkway, her mother chasing after Bran. Her sister had a savage grin on her face as she danced around Tyene with a thin sword, even to Sansa’s untrained eye it was obvious that Arya was good.

She was reluctant to drag her sister away from something that gave her such obvious joy but she had to.

“Arya,” She called as she approached the sparring pair, nodding to the bowing men she passed as she went, “Could I borrow you for a moment please, I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Arya rolled her eyes slightly, not that Sansa would have expected anything else, and followed her to a secluded room in the keep.

“We’ve received a message from the Vale. They are willing to offer an alliance if it is sealed with a betrothal to Robin.” Sansa didn’t see a pint in beating around the bush, her sister would see through it far too quickly.

“And what does that have to do with me?” Arya’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Wait-”

“Arya, I know I am asking a lot of you, but you are the only one I can ask. You are the only person whose status would not be taken as an insult by Lord Arryn.” Sansa spoke before Arya could finish her thought.

Arya looked up at Sansa with distrust in her eyes, “Why can’t it be you? Only an idiot would object to marrying a queen.”

Sansa sighed, she knew Arya would ask that question, she sat down heavily on a chair, feeling the phantom weight of her crown more than usual.

“The lords will never accept anyone ruling them who does not hold the name Stark, I can’t risk marrying someone who would be insulted by my refusal to change my name, someone who would be insulted by the lords’ refusal to call them king. If I am to marry, I now must marry a second son or a bastard.”

Arya growled a little as she spoke, it was obvious that Arya was unhappy with her words but could not fault the truth in them.

“Fine. But I expect to have a say in the contract. I won’t be forced to be someone I’m not by a sickly boy-child.” Her tone was petulant but Sansa didn’t care, Arya had agreed and they might not lose the fledgling alliance.

“You can help me write the contract, I’ll make it so that you don’t need to marry for years, I’ll arrange for you to have a household to go with you. You have my word Arya, just thank you. We needed this more than you might have imagined.” Sansa wrapped her sister in a hug, one that Arya happily returned after a token resistance.

“I have good news as well you know,” Sansa said, feeling a little mischievous, “The news hasn’t spread yet but Jon found two people we know very well when he was on patrol. Arya, Bran and Rickon are alive.”

Arya stepped back from her and looked at her heavily, her response was so Arya that Sansa felt stupid for not expecting it. She punched Sansa in the arm hard enough to bruise and yelled. “You aren’t teasing me, are you? They are really alive? And with Jon? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Arya, I would never joke about something like this. And it slipped my mind, you know, when you brought the reanimated corpse of our mother back with you!”

They looked at each other and burst into hysterical giggles, it was so typical of them to argue over good news that they just couldn’t help themselves.

“They’re alright though?” Arya asked in a weirdly vulnerable voice.

Sansa smiled at her, “They have Jon, of course they are. And do you know something really good about my title?”

Her little sister shook her head and Sansa smiled even wider.

“Well, it means I have the power to legitimise people. So as of a few weeks ago Jon Snow is officially Jon Stark, and has a royal pardon from his vows to the Watch.”

Arya leapt at her and crushed her into a giant hug. “He can come home! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

* * *

“Ser Jaime, I hope your accommodations are to your standards?” Sansa stood in the doorway of the cell they kept him in.

“I have a bed and am not exposed to the elements, sat in my own shit, so it’s a far sight better than the last time your family held me.” The Kingslayer raised his head and grinned savagely at her, “Is there a reason you are here Oh Queen in the North, or was it just to see whether I was miserable enough for your tastes.”

Sansa did not react to his hostility outside of smoothing her skirts, “Cersei’s children are all yours, aren’t they?”

From the shock on his face she knew he had not been expecting that to be what she asked, it was a panicked sort of shock, the sort that comes when a secret is revealed by someone you least expect.

“I am not stupid, my lord, no matter what your sister may think of me.” Sansa continued, “It was not hard to piece together when she had such a look of horror on her face at my father’s word, when she seemed almost scared at the missive from Stannis Baratheon. She may have not noticed me, but I noticed her. Now, I can arrange something you dearly desire if you just give me information.”

He laughed bitterly, “It seems we all underestimated your powers of observation. But tell me, Queen Sansa, what can a girl like you offer me that would be worth betraying my family?”

Sansa smiled, “Your daughter Myrcella is in Dorne is she not? And Tommen is little more than a babe with how sheltered his mother keeps him, what do you think might happen to them should your family lose? I have been the child of a traitor; do you not think I might know what they might face.”

What little colour there was drained out of Ser Jaime’s face, “And why do you think we might lose?”

“I have support from four of the kingdoms and am in negotiations with a fifth. Your family holds the Westerlands and Crownlands. The odds are very much against you. Make this deal and Myrcella’s betrothal will stay if she wants it. Make this deal and I will personally ensure Tommen is fostered to whichever castle you are at, safe from any repercussions he might otherwise face for being Joffrey’s heir.”

“Tommen will be fostered with you, and Myrcella too it she no longer wants to be betrothed to the Dornish prince. They will remain heirs to Casterly Rock and be treated as such.” 

“We can make that a part of the deal, but you will have to tell me and my council all we ask.” Sansa knew she had him hooked even if it was using methods her father probably wouldn’t have approved of.

The Kingslayer hung his head, “We have a deal, Your Grace.”

Sansa clapped her hands once. “Excellent. Now, since any betrayal would mean the deal is off, would you prefer to be moved to a different room?”

She relished the incredulous look he gave her; it may not be typical behaviour but she did believe strongly in the idea that more flies were caught with honey than vinegar.

A guard came at the sound of her clap and she turned to him with an imperious expression, “I require help with moving Ser Jaime to the room we had prepared for him. He is to be kept confined there until I call for him. Do not allow anyone but my council to see him.”

The guard nodded to her and moved into the cell to sling Ser Jaime’s arm over his shoulders, the knight still not being fully healed after his ordeal.

The guard deposited the Kingslayer in the room Sansa had indicated, it was small and not by any means luxurious but it was far more comfortable than the cell he had been in earlier.

“If your information is good Ser Jaime, and you don’t cause any trouble, then you can earn freedoms. Should you misbehave then you will be back to your cell, and any information that is deliberately misleading will mean the deal is off and I will do nothing to protect Tommen or Myrcella.”

There was a flash of something she couldn’t identify in Ser Jaime’s eyes, but he nodded as he sat down heavily on the single chair in the room.

“Your Grace, what of Lady Brienne?” Ser Jaime rasped, “Is she still here? She will be loyal to you, no matter what you ask of her.”

His tone was earnest, and Sansa found herself wondering just what had gone between the two companions.

“Lady Brienne is the reason you have been trusted with this deal. She seems to think there is more to you than meets the eye.”

She watched with great interest as he flushed ever so slightly at her words, “She is a true knight, Your Grace. She would rather die than cause you any harm.”

Sansa carefully kept her smirk hidden she suspected there was more to their story than either would admit to, more to their feelings than either would admit to.

“If I can find someone willing to supervise you then you might be able to train Ser Jaime.” She said instead, starting to leave the room, “Until I have need of you however, sleep well.”

She swept out of the room, ignoring the perplexed look on the Kingslayer’s face, she had to go inform her uncle of her decision.

* * *

“They’ve accepted the terms.” Uncle Brynden said, throwing a letter down on the large table they were using to plan. “As of now the Vale is officially allied with the North and Riverlands, with the agreement that upon turning eight-and-ten Princess Arya Stark will marry Lord Robert Arryn.”

A sigh of relief made its way around the table, even as Arya shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“That is excellent news,” Sansa said, “Will their troops join our assault on the Twins?”

“Yes, Your Grace, they will attack from the East as we do so from the West. With their armies defeated here and split between two assaults they will soon crumble, especially with so many mouths to feed.”

Sansa allowed a savage smile to cross her face, “Good. Have they given a response to our other offer as well?”

This time Edmure answered, reading from the letter, “They have said that Lord Robert will come to bend the knee and meet his betrothed when Winterfell is ours. But yes, congratulations my queen, you now rule three kingdoms.”

Sansa kept how overwhelmed she was by that thought hidden beneath her ivory mask, while it was unexpected how easily the negotiations had gone, she had ben preparing for a third kingdom to join them, just not so soon.

“We’ve received a message from the Wall as well,” Sansa said, “There has been news of Stannis Baratheon moving his army around the North. And the negotiations with the Free Folk have concluded, they are moving through the Wall as we speak.”

The few Northerners grumbled at that in a way the River Lords did not, but then, the River Lords did not have the history with the Wildlings that the Northerners did. Sansa had known it would be an unpopular decision before she made it however and so paid their grumbles no mind.

“Do we know what Baratheon is doing in the North?” Lord Piper asked, ignoring the reactions of the Northerners.

“We don’t.” Brynden said gruffly, “He retreated there after the Blackwater and we don’t know why. He has made no show of attempting to move south, neither has he attempted to rally any Northern Houses to his cause. I don’t think he is a problem to worry about just yet.”

“We cannot go North until the Twins are dealt with anyway, we cannot leave an enemy in our midst. We especially cannot leave the hostages taken at the Red Wedding there to suffer for our campaign.” Sansa said definitively.

She had other reasons for attacking the Twins, she could hardly call upon her Northern lords if many of them were captives she had forgotten, and, on a more personal level, Robb’s bones deserved to rest in the halls of their ancestors instead of whatever dank corner the Freys had put them in.

* * *

Sansa found herself in the training grounds once more, she had a request to ask of Lady Brienne, one she couldn’t ask Tyene to do. She needed to be able to wield a sword with enough skill to be able to remove someone’s head, to be able to uphold the traditions of the North and teachings of her father.

She had no desire whatsoever to do so but the Kings of Winter had never hidden behind executioners and she would not start now.

“Lady Brienne, I have need of you, I don’t wish to be a warrior, and yet to keep to the traditions of my people I find that I must learn to wield a weapon.” Sansa said, not looking into Brienne’s eyes.

“Your Grace, one of us can do it for you. There is no need for you to swing the sword yourself.” Brienne said, in what she probably thought was a comforting tone.

“Our way is the old way.” Sansa responded, softly but deliberately, “He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. To abandon that is to abandon our ways, to abandon that which separates us from the South. Please Brienne, teach me how to swing the sword so that I might fulfil my duties.”

Brienne sighed and looked at Sansa with a searching gaze, “I will train you, Your Grace, but you will likely never be proficient enough to survive a battle.”

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t need to survive a battle, I just need to be able to chop someone’s head off.”

“Is there a time frame in particular for this Your Grace?” Brienne asked.

“Before the trial of Lord Frey, I would have him die by the hands of a Stark.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Sansa made to leave Brienne to her training but stopped as a thought came to her, “I would ask another favour of you Lady Brienne,” She waited for Brienne to nod before continuing, “My sister, Arya is training with Lady Tyene at the moment but I would ask you to perhaps take her as your squire?”

“A- a squire Your Grace?”

“Yes, Arya has never wanted to be a ‘lady’ and if I can do something to make her happy then I will, especially when she is sacrificing some of her freedom to help me.”

“I thought squires were uncommon in the North, Your Grace.” Brienne’s face was flushed.

“They are, but my siblings and I were raised in the Faith of the Seven as well as the Old Gods, besides, Arya has a talent for swordplay that even I can see. It would be a shame for her to be unable to use it, especially when she enjoys it so much.”

“Then, yes, Your Grace. I would be happy to take Princess Arya on as my squire, although I am unable to knight her as I am unknighted myself.”

Sansa grinned at her, thinking of Ser Jaime’s words from before, “I doubt that will be the case for much longer my lady. And I thank you, my sister will be ecstatic when I tell her the news.”

She walked away before Brienne could say anything, smirking slightly at the flustered look on her face. Maybe she would let Ser Jaime train after all, she was sure Brienne wouldn’t mind supervising.

* * *

Sansa had one last thing she needed to do before her campaign headed off again. One last betrayal of her family to deal with.

“Lady Sybelle Westerling, you stand accused of treason, of plotting to betray guest right, of aiding regicide. How do you plead?” Sansa’s voice was as cold as a winter’s morning, her expression as inexpressive as she could make it.

“I committed no treason. No regicide. I helped remove an imposter, a traitor to the iron Throne from Westeros. I should be thanked!” The lady spat, still haughty and proud despite being dirty from the cell she had spent the last few weeks in.

“Do you deny that you plotted with Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton and Walder Frey to massacre the Northern lords at the wedding of Lord Edmure Tully to Lady Roslin Frey? Do you deny that you gave your daughter moon tea so that she would not conceive the Heir to the North? Do you deny that you planned to marry the Dowager Queen Jeyne to one of Tywin Lannistr’s bannermen?”

With every question the jeers of the crowd got louder and louder, Sansa was sure that had there been rotten fruit to hand it would have been aimed at the disgraced lady.

“I demand Trail by Combat if you insist on putting me through this farce of a traitors court!” Lady Sybelle yelled out over the jeers of the crowd, her words prompting a hush to fall.

A vicious smile made its way onto Sansa’s face, “Certainly Lady Sybelle, if someone is willing to be your champion.”

The lady blanched but raised her chin challengingly, “I call upon my son, to defend my honour.”

Sansa was surprised to see Jeyne step forwards, “Which one of my brothers mother? Both were at the Twins when your plans came to fruition, they supported King Robb, I doubt either would defend you even if they were here.”

Her voice was strong and for a moment Sansa could see just why her brother had loved her, why Robb had broken an alliance for her.

“Is there anyone else you would call upon Lady Sybelle? Anyone who can make it here before our departure tomorrow?” Sansa asked, aware that none would fight for someone who had cost them so much.

The lady looked around frantically, trying to catch the eye of someone long enough to implore them to fight on her behalf. Everyone there either looked away or stared her down with hostile eyes.

“If no one here is willing to fight on your behalf Lady Westerling I will ask once again, how do you plead to the charges levelled against you?”

Lady Sybelle raised her chin defiantly, “I planned with Lord Lannister to kill your traitor brother, he was a fool just as you are. You will all die; your heads will adorn the city walls and I shall laugh.”

Sansa allowed the jeers the lady’s words prompted to be called out unchallenged for a minute or so, allowed her bannermen to release some of their anger, before she held up a single hand to call for silence.

“Lady Sybelle Westerling you have been found guilty by your own admission to treason, to plotting to betray guest right, to aiding regicide. Normally the punishment for this would be death but your daughter has asked for mercy on your behalf, and let it not be said I cannot be merciful. You will be confined in a cell until the war is over and then sent to the Silent Sisters where you will live out your days among them.”

It was perhaps more merciful than others would have been but she remained true to her promise. She would not be like Joffrey.


	9. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today! This one being short and sweet :)

The commotion in the Great Hall at Castle Black was on a level that Jon had not witnessed before, even just before they set out on the Great Ranging. He was thankful that he had left Rickon with Maester Aemon and Osha, aware of just how much trouble his brother and direwolf could cause in such a situation.

He was even more thankful he had left Rickon behind when he saw the cause of the commotion. Men dressed in the yellow and black livery of the Baratheon’s were stood on one side of the hall, gathered around a man Jon assumed to be Stannis Baratheon. On the other side were the Free Folk, those who are still waiting for people to arrive before they travel to their new homes or those who have volunteered to be a part of Sansa’s army.

He was relieved to see that Tormund was a part of the group of Free Folk, maybe that meant someone would listen and he wouldn’t need to worry about bloodshed.

Sometimes Jon wondered when he had become the babysitter in all but name for the Free Folk and then realised it was likely when they found Bran and Rickon in that old mill.

“Tormund, explain what is going on here?” He asked, strolling over and deliberately ignoring the Baratheon.

“This cock stormed in here and asked who had given permission for us to enter his kingdom. As he doesn’t look much like you or yer brother Pretty Crow, I figured he probably wasn’t yer sister.”

Jon had to swallow his laugh at that, no matter how much he might have wanted to laugh at the image of Stannis Baratheon in one of Sansa’s dresses.

From the look on Tormund’s face he had guessed what Jon was thinking.

“Why don’t you take everyone outside? I should be able to deal with him without too much trouble.” He suggested, unsurprised when Tormund eagerly agreed.

The Free Folk left the room with surprisingly little complaining at Tormund’s cajoling.

“Your Grace.” Jon bowed to Baratheon, not wishing to offend the pride of a man with an army.

The self-proclaimed king looked him up and down with a critical eye, “You have the look of a Stark. You must be Ned’s bastard.”

“Aye, Your Grace, my name is Jon.”

The man nodded impatiently, like he had little time for even the most basic pleasantries. “Well then Jon Snow, tell me. Who gave permission for the Wildlings to cross the Wall?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“You did.”

“Aye.”

Baratheon sighed heavily, like he couldn’t be bothered to deal with Jon’s impetuousness. “You are lucky Snow that I need someone with Stark blood, else I would have you hanged for treason.”

Jon stared at the man with a flat expression, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You can give me the North, Snow. Kneel before me, and I will raise you as the Lord of Winterfell.”

Baratheon could not be serious. Was he truly so desperate for allies that he would forsake the line of inheritance, the line his own claim relied on?

Jon looked at Stannis with an expression his siblings knew meant trouble but to anyone else was one full of innocence

“I thank you for your offer Your Grace, however there are a few slight problems with it. First, I cannot be betrothed to someone without the permission of my liege. Second, you have no authority to make me Lord of Winterfell when my trueborn siblings still live. And third and most importantly, you are not my king. My Queen is my sister, the queen we chose and I will not aid you in usurping the throne we gave to her, the throne our brother died for.”

His voice was nearly shouting by the end, punctuated by a silent snarl from Ghost who was stood by his side.

“And what of your vows Jon Snow? Did your queenly sister pardon you to allow you to marry? Did she legitimize you so that you could be crowned instead of her?” Stannis said curtly, in the tone of someone who thinks they ae smarter than the one they are talking to.

“Aye, Queen Sansa did pardon me,” Jon allowed himself to smile, “So that I may stand as regent for Prince Rickon should something happen to her while she is on campaign. And aye, she legitimized me as well, the better to make lord accept my regency should it be needed. I would remind you, King Stannis, and the priestess of yours, that you are in my sister’s kingdom now, and any attempt to burn people alive will be met with the full force of the queen’s justice, king or not.”

He enjoyed the look on the Baratheon’s face, he’d heard the rumours of the ‘Lord of Light’ and would no let such barbarity happen in front of him. Not when he could claim authority to prevent it.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me Your Grace, I have need to write to my queen and to check that Prince Rickon is actually attending his lessons.”

As he left, he thought he might have misheard the chuckle from the man to Stannis’ left, he doubted anyone from Stannis’ court would laugh at his rudeness before their king.

* * *

Rickon shrieked with joy as he ran around the courtyard, Shaggydog at his heels. He splashed through the mud, coating himself in it. Tormund chased after him, the man always conveniently too slow to catch Rickon, no matter that Jon had seen him outrun Ghost on one memorable occasion.

He spotted Ghost slinking around the back of a set of crates and smirked as he descended the steps into the courtyard, evidently neither Tormund or Rickon had noticed Ghost’s presence.

Ghost cocked his head and suddenly pounced at Tormund, joined by Shaggydog in a move that looked almost planned. Tormund fell to the floor with a yell, two heavy direwolves sat on his chest.

The look on Rickon’s face as he turned to see what had happened to his chaser was one Jon would treasure forever. He let out a wild war cry and launched himself at the downed Wildling.

Jon couldn’t hold in his laughter at the loud ‘ooof’ that Tormund let out as Rickon landed on his stomach, knocking all the air out of him.

He realised his mistake in announcing his presence with his laugh when both Tormund and Rickon turned to him with equally savage expressions.

Rickon and both wolves released Tormund from his prone position and the two exchanged evil grins.

“Say Little Firewolf, why don’t we capture ourselves a pretty princess?” Tormund said.

Jon held his hands up and started to back away as his friend, his brother, and two direwolves all somehow managed to look at him with the same predatory look. He gave up on all pretence of dignity as Rickon released another little war cry, and turned to run away from them.

He did not make it very far.

Ghost – the traitor – took him down quickly by crashing into his knees so he fell face first into the mud. A heavy weight landed on his back just as he had started to push himself up, making hiss face end up in the mud again. A smaller, but still not overly light, weight landed on his shoulders and he could feel two little hands tugging at his curls.

“What should we do with the pretty princess we caught ourselves Rickon?” Tormund asked, and Jon could just picture the shit eating grin on his face.

Rickon giggled and tugged harder on Jon’s hair, “S’nsa always said the princess should be given a kiss.”

Jon felt like groaning, of all the things Rickon would remember about their sister it would be her love for the romantic. He felt like groaning in a dfferent way when Tormund shifted on his back.

“Oh, did she? Well little Firewolf, would you like to do the honours?” Tormund said through his laughter and… something else?

Rickon pulled on Jon’s hair to make him move his face until enough of it was exposed for Rickon to leave a slobbery kiss right on his muddy cheek.

Jon groaned a final time as Shaggydog and Ghost thought that copying Rickon was an excellent idea, and resigned himself to being covered in wolf slobber for the foreseeable future.

* * *

“Jon! Jon! There’s a girl here!” Rickon ran into the room, uncaring that Jon was in a meeting with Baratheon.

“There have been lots of girls here Rickon.” Jon said tiredly, swinging his brother up onto his lap, “And what have I told you about barging into meetings?”

Rickon looked down and stuck his lower lip out in a pout, “Not to.” He mumbled, then he seemed to pick up enthusiasm again, “But Jon this girl isn’t a Free Folk girl! She’s a Lady and, and she looks like a dragon!”

Jon winced at his brother’s words and peered at Baratheon, hoping he wouldn’t take offense at Rickon’s words. To his amazement, while the king had no reaction his Hand was chuckling softly.

“That would be Princess Shireen, Rickon. She is King Stannis’ daughter.” Jon explained quietly.

Rickon frowned and for a moment Jon’s heart leapt into his throat because it was a look he had seen on Robb’s face so many times before and all he could think about was what he had lost, but the moment passed and he was reminded by the weight of the toddler in his arms of what he still had.

“Perhaps you could join Princess Shireen in her lessons Prince Rickon? I’m sure she would be happy to have someone there to tell stories to?” Ser Davos said kindly.

“Lord.” Baratheon said curtly, “He is a Lord. Not a prince. And his presence would distract Shireen from her studies.”

Jon started to feel anger build at Baratheon, especially as Rickon slumped in his lap.

“Queen Sansa currently rules twice the kingdoms you do, my lord.” He said with barely restrained fury, “So I would thank you to address her heir by his proper titles.”

Baratheon looked like he had just bitten into one off the lemons Sansa loved so much, his mouth puckered in displeasure at Jon’s declaration.

“Your sister is a traitor. Your brother was a traitor. You are making your youngest brother a traitor. Do you want to lose all your family Jon Snow?”

Jon stood up, manoeuvring Rickon so he was in his arms, he knew if he remained in the room any longer, he was likely to punch the self-proclaimed king. And an action like that would not be taken well by anyone, especially not Sansa who was hoping for an alliance of sorts with the man.

Osha greeted him outside the room, her face gaining a sympathetic look once she saw the anger on Jon’s own features.

“Give the Little Lord here,” She instructed, holding her arms out, “I’ll take him to run off some of his energy. You go find Tormund and convince him to spar with you, the activity and chance to hit something will do you the world of good.”

She plucked Rickon out of his arms and stalked off, leaving him stood in the corridor unsure as to whether to take her advice or head to the office he had chosen to try and do some work on the finalisations for the Free Folk Treaty.

“And I’ve taken the key to your desk!” She called out just as she turned a corner, “So you have no choice but to do as I said.”

Well then. Looked like he was going to have to spar with Tormund after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rant time: So I try not to do this but, honestly if you cant say anything nice maybe don’t say anything at all? And like, if my characterisation is pissing you off just stop reading, don’t tell me about it. Cause yeah, funnily enough putting characters in different situations means their characterisation is going to change, especially when they are surrounded by people who espouse different values than in canon. 
> 
> For everyone who has said something nice about this story THANK YOU you guys are honestly the reason the updates have been so frequent!


	10. Brynden

There were some moments that were awkward no matter how old you got, and having your nephew and technical liege lord walk in while you were kissing you lover was always going to be one of them. He hadn’t realised that Edmure had walked in until he heard a loud groan of annoyance and a loud curse from behind him and twirled to look.

His nephew stood there with his hand over his eyes and a longsuffering look on his face.

“Its not bad enough that I kept walking in on Robb and his wife, or that I did the same the single time Cat visited us with Ned, but did I really have to see it with you Uncle?” Edmure complained, in the same voice he had used as a child when he didn’t receive two helpings of dessert.

Brynden couldn’t help it, he started to laugh harder than he had in ages, Oberyn joining in once he viewed the affronted look on Edmure’s face.

“Laugh all you want Uncle,” Edmure muttered, “I’m still scarred from the incident with Cat. She sounded like a cat; it was traumatic.”

Oberyn only snickered harder at those words but Brynden sobered up a little, logically he knew Cat had enjoyed a loving relationship with her husband, their five children could attest to that, but he did not want to think of what that actually meant.

“What did you come here for Edmure? It’s late.” Brynden said.

“Sorry if I interrupted any plans you might have had uncle, but I wanted to ask why you placed me among Sansa’s guard for tomorrow instead of as part of the assault.” 

Brynden sighed, he might have guessed that was why his nephew had come to find him, he was ashamed of being among Sansa’s guard instead of helping to lead the attack on the Twins. He moved to clasp Edmure’s shoulder and look him directly in the eyes.

“Because Sansa and Arya still need their family around them and I won’t have them risk losing both of us, not if I can help it. Besides, I would have thought you would be happy to never see the inside of the Twins again.” Brynden explained gruffly.

Edmure looked up at him with eyes that both of them would deny were wet and Brynden gave up on his gruff exterior and pulled the lad into a hug.

“I may think you make some right bloody stupid choices sometimes lad, but that doesn’t mean I care for you any less.”

Edmure was saved from replying to his words by the interruption of Oberyn’s drawl.

“As touching as this scene is, you uncle and I had plans. So unless you would like to take part in them,” Oberyn wiggled his eyebrows, “I would suggest you leave us to them.”

Edmure flushed as red as his hair and made a hasty escape from the tent, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from them.

Brynden stalked up to his lover with an unimpressed expression, “That was mean.”

Oberyn’s grin turned lascivious, “Then come over here and tell me off, oh protective uncle.”

And well, who was Brynden to resist an invitation like that?

* * *

The day dawned bright and clear, the sun glinting off helmets and spear tips, a beautiful day for vengeance.

The two towers of the Twins gleamed a pale grey in the dawn light, a light breeze rustling the banners and standards carried on either side.

Wolves, Trout, Roses, Suns, on one side of the river, Eagles on the other, and in the middle Twin Towers. Lord Frey must be salivating at the thought he was important enough to warrant attention from five of the Great Houses of Westeros.

Brynden pulled down the visor of his helmet and nodded to the man next to him as he rode out towards the gatehouse, so that his words might be heard within.

“In the name of Queen Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, Queen of the Trident, Queen of the Vale; we order you to surrender this castle to her justice, lay down your arms and none who were involved in the breaking of guest right and the Red Wedding shall be harmed. Resist and we cannot assure the safety of any who dwell within.”

While the offer was genuine, Brynden was mostly stalling for time and keeping their attention focused on him. As he spoke, Oberyn was swimming with a force of men up the Green Fork with the aim of taking the bridge and the murder tower guarding it before the Freys could react.

It was an essential part of their plan and the longer Brynden could keep the attention of the Freys focused on him, the greater the chance of Oberyn’s success,

“Raise your portcullis, open the gates, and no harm will come to any innocents within. Queen Sansa is merciful, she does not seek revenge but rather justice. No one will be harmed for the sins of their fathers.” He called out once more, hoping his words might inspire treachery from within Walder’s own house, that some of his sons might rise up to take advantage of the generous offer they had given.

Silence reigned from the towers and across the field, the sound of banners snapping in the wind the only thing to be heard.

An arrow shot out of the gatehouse landed just in front of Brynden’s horse, startling him and his steed. A shout followed not a moment later.

“Fuck off!” Was yelled from the gatehouse and Brynden was quite relieved that Sansa hadn’t insisted on offering the terms herself, while she was currently living among an army, he still took pains to ensure she and Arya weren’t exposed to swearing and cursing.

With the refusal given Brynden had no need to remain so exposed to the arrows of the Freys and so rode back to the safety of his men.

A vicious grin crossed his face as he gave the orders for the bards to start playing as the first screams indicating Oberyn’s appearance arrived, it had been Arya’s idea and he did admire her sense of justice. The bards agreed and soon the first bars of ‘Wolf in the Night’ began to sing across the soon-to-be battlefield.

At the signal of the music the siege equipment they had spent days building started to fire, the stones from the trebuchets flying over their heads to crash into the walls of the towers. But even the crash of stone against stone could not drown out the song that more than half the army had taken up.

A wall started to crumble, the trebuchets doing their job perfectly, and Brynden gave out the order for his men to start the charge forwards. By the time they reached the hole it had widened enough for them to be able to enter with ease, although to say anything in battle was easy was the height of foolishness.

He brought his sword down onto a soldier wearing the blue and grey of House Frey and felt a jolt of battle-lust fill him as it sliced through the man like butter. His lips pulled back into a snarl more appropriate on his niece’s direwolves as he gazed around for his next target.

He lost himself in the rhythm of battle as he fought his way through the Twins, uncaring of the blood that splashed onto his armour, their plan had worked and the Freys were trapped in their separate castles, unable to cross the bridge to safety without being taken down by Oberyn and his men.

All the while he could still hear ‘Wolf in the Night’ playing, hummed or whistled by his own men or from the instruments at the camp, filtering in through the stones and windows of the keep.

He stopped his blade but an inch from the throat of Lothar Frey and with an absolute viciousness in his voice ordered the man to tell his troops to stand down.

The man did so and the clashing of blades stopped, the Frey men dropping their weapons and putting their hands behind their head. Brynden ordered them to be rounded up and placed in the great hall, stripped of their weapons and armour, just in case they thought of rescinding their surrender.

He kept Lothar Frey with him as he searched through the rooms of the keep, to see if anyone remained that might be planning an ambush. One room contained a large number of women and girls, all the ones who lived on the west side of the river no doubt. He set a guard on their room, and convinced that no ambush awaited, dragged the Frey across the bridge to try and force a surrender from his father.

The east side of the battle had not gone as quickly, the Knights of the Vale not as used to the close quarters fighting of a castle as the foot soldiers from the Reach or Riverlands. But the presence of his men, still filled with battle-lust made the Frey surrender all but inevitable.

Lord Walder did not surrender though, not until Oberyn’s spear tip was beneath his chin and most of his sons had blades to their throats.

“In the name of House Stark, you shall all face trial for treason, murder, and breaking guest right.” Brynden ground out, “You will face justice at Queen Sansa’s pleasure.”

The old Frey opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but stopped when the spear tip pressed a little harder, causing a trickle of blood to run down his throat.

Good. No one wanted to hear what the traitor had to say anyway.

* * *

Brynden had offered to lead the men down below the castle to the cells to try and find the prisoners that the Freys had kept. He had managed to scare the keys out of the castellan of the castle, and found himself accompanied by a mix of Northmen and Riverlanders.

The first few cells in the damp dungeons were empty of all but rats and bones and Brynden felt his heart sink a little at the thought that the Freys might have killed everyone they took hostage, at even more lives being lost.

They rounded a corner and there was a rasping shout as the light hit the eyes of whoever was imprisoned there.

“Fucking hells!” A very much diminished Greatjon Umber yelled from his cell, “Is that you Blackfish?”

“Aye,” Brynden unlocked the door “Its good to see you so untouched by your imprisonment Umber.”

He thought that the Greatjon would have rushed at him had he not been weakened by his imprisonment.

“We thought we had heard fighting. But how the fuck did you make it here? King Robb was killed and most of the army along with him.” Greatjon asked as Brynden opened up more cells, releasing bannermen of his family and of the North.

“The King’s sister is Queen now. Ser Brynden snuck her out of Kings Landing right under Tywin Lannister’s nose.” Lewys Piper said, as he scanned the faces exiting the cells for his brother.

“His sister? You don’t mean little Sansa Stark, do you?” Maege Mormont said with disbelief.

“She’s taken to ruling quite well.” Brynden said absently, “Ned and Cat did wonders with raising her. Her personality and morals are almost all Ned.”

A cry of joy prevented anyone from answering as Lewys crashed into his brother Marq and hugged him fiercely. They all looked away as the brothers reunited, wanting to give them a moment of privacy.

The final few cells were emptied and Brynden began to lead the former captives slowly up the stairs to a hall where a meal awaited them. He took his time, to allow for their eyes to adjust to the brightening light and to allow for their weakness after being kept confined for so long.

Sansa had not yet made her way into the Twins yet, she was being kept safely at the camo until they were sure the last of the Frey men had been contained, but still the hall was newly hung with Stark banners and there was an air of levity to the air.

As the former captives entered the room, chatter stopped and they were rushed by family and friends who had thought them lost.

Brynden slipped out of the room, he had his nephew’s wife to find.

* * *

The reunion of Edmure and his wife was entertaining, his nephew looked amazed by the size of Lady Roslin’s belly, scared as well. Brynden did not blame him, he could hardly imagine his loveable fool of a nephew as a father. Not when he still needed parenting himself most days.

Lady Roslin had been kept confined to a room in the East Tower, kept healthy only for the child she carried. the fear on her face when he had opened the door had been horrifying and he wondered just what she had been through since her wedding.

Edmure had looked for her when he escorted Sansa and Arya into the Twins, a frantic look that made Brynden wondered just how exactly the two had built up such a good relationship already, when they had only known each other a day before their separation and confinement.

He didn’t question it though, he wanted all his nieces and nephews happy, or as happy as they could be.

He felt an arm snake around his waist as he watched his nephew and his wife embrace and a hot breath whisper in his ear.

“A little birdie told me you were standing here all forlorn and lonesome without anyone to hold” Oberyn said.

Brynden deliberately did not turn to look at him, but raised an eyebrow anyway, “Because that’s why you came looking for me. You felt sorry I was alone, not because you had any ulterior motives.”

Brynden could hear the smirk in Oberyn’s voice as he was tugged towards the stair, “Well Lord Frey’s room is free and how much would it annoy him if we fucked in his room?”

He had to admit he did get a certain sense of satisfaction from imagining the look on Walder Frey’s face if the man knew two men had been in his room.

“Fine. But we lay down a sheet first, I don’t want to put my body parts anywhere near fabric the old man has touched.”

Oberyn chuckled darkly, “Of course, we wouldn’t want to catch anything now, would we?”

Brynden just smiled and allowed himself to be dragged up the stairs, getting rid of restless energy did sound good.

* * *

Brynden watched the steel of his niece’s face as she took in the sight before them, the body before them.

It had been hung from the battlements when the assault had begun, and almost as soon as it was over Brynden had ordered someone to collect it so that it could be treated with the respect it deserved.

He watched as she moved closer, seemingly unaffected by the stench, and gently ran her fingers over the black fabric of the doublet and the silver wolves of the clasp.

“Have his bones prepared to travel North. My brother should rest at Winterfell with the kings of old.” Her voice was as smooth as always, but Brynden could detect a slight tremble underneath it all.

Sansa’s direwolves pressed close to her side, sensing her distress no matter how hidden it might have been, and not for the first time Brynden was glad of their presence.

He followed her as she moved towards the prisoners they had taken, “Lord Frey, you stand here accused of treason, of murder, of breaking the sacred act of Guest Right. You shall stand trial for your crimes at dawn tomorrow. Enjoy your last night.”

She stood there, looking every inch the queen, the sunlight glinting off the bronze in her crown, direwolves flanking her, and Brynden knew they had chosen the right person to rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who said something nice after the last chapter, you literally brought tears to my eyes with your support!


	11. Sansa

Sansa held a piece of fabric in her hands, Stark grey and soft from use, its stitches little girl crooked. It had belonged to Robb, one of the tunics he had deemed appropriate to carry south with him and had left at Riverrun when he travelled to the Red Wedding, one she had gifted him with for a past nameday. She had promised to make Arya new clothes, ones her sister would like wearing, as she was stuck in Uncle Edmure’s old outfits, of which not many had survived.

She planned to turn this tunic into two for Arya, but could hardly bring herself to make the first cut, feeling like it would really mean Robb was gone, as if repurposing his clothes meant more than seeing the remnants of his corpse with her own eyes.

Sansa took a deep breath and tore at the fabric, ripping it apart at the seams, thankful that she did not need to do it with his cloaks, that it didn’t matter if his cloaks swam on her and Arya. Or at least, not in the same way that it would with a tunic.

She had wanted to take her mind off the trials that were to come when the sun broke over the horizon, wanted to forget that she would have to listen to her brother’s murderers speak about why they had chosen t kill him.

She also needed to discuss with Arya and their uncles just what to do about moth- just what to do about Lady Stoneheart. It was unlikely they would be able to take her back to Winterfell; they did not want to traumatise Rickon or put Jon in danger.

And to top it all Rickon’s fifth nameday was soon and she needed to arrange for a gift to make its way to him. It was bad enough he spent his last nameday with his mother and brother at war and his father dead, this year it would be spent away from his home and with his mother not just absent but dead. Or as close to dead as was possible.

And she needed to come up with some way of repaying the men who had come to her aid, the Tyrells and Martells especially, they were risking war in their own lands to help her.

… Not that Prince Oberyn treated being away from his home like a hardship, provided her uncle was around.

Sansa had found that she didn’t care if it was against her mother’s religion. It wasn’t like those gods had ever done anything to help her when she was stuck in the Red Keep, and besides the Old Gods did not care about such matters.

Grey-Wind and Lady nudged at her as if to affirm her thoughts, Sansa had begun to think of laws she would change when she was back in Winterfell, and to allow people the freedom to love was likely to be one of them.

She had always been a romantic after all.

The flutter she got in her stomach every time she though of Margaery told her that this law might not just be on her uncle’ behalf (or brother’s considering the number of times he mentioned a man called ‘Tormund’ in his letters).

But that was in the future, she might die before she reached that point, die at the hands of a soldier or sell sword, die at the blade of an executioner in the same place her father had. Nothing was certain, not even her reign, until she was home again.

The first rays of sun broke over the horizon and Sansa took a deep breath, steadying herself for her duty.

* * *

It was another clear day and Sansa hated it.

The sky was too kind a colour to match the rage she felt at the prisoners before her. She tried to channel her father, the way he had never flinched before performing his duty, his sense of right and wrong.

Her dress felt heavy in the unseasonable warmth, her crown even more so.

She glanced to her side, it was her uncle’s blade she would use for the executions, the calluses still forming on her hands from her training with it. It sat on his hip, ready to be passed to her when she asked for it.

Lord Walder Frey was brought before her first, his hands bound and his person unkempt from a night in his own cells.

“Lord Walder Frey, you stand accused of treason, murder, and breaking the sacred act of Guest Right. If you have any words to say in your defence speak them now.” Her voice was as cold as she could make it, not a difficult feat as she stared into the eyes of the man who had orchestrated the deaths of her mother and brother.

“You are fools if you think this will go unnoticed by the Iron Throne, all of you will die for your treason. I will be remembered as a Kingslayer while you will just be the latest in a long line of heads to adorn the walls of the Red Keep. Still at least you’ll have your father to keep you company.” Lord Frey cackled.

Sansa could feel disgust rising in her gut, she held her hand out to the side and heard her uncle unsheathe his blade.

When the hilt was placed in her palm, she wrapped both hands around it and placed the tip on the floor, as she had seen her father do before.

“In my own name, I, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, the Trident and the Vale, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm; sentence you to die.” She made sure her voice did not waver or betray the fact she hated doing this.

Two soldiers wrestled Walder Frey’s head into the divot of an executioner’s block and she raised the sword.

She dropped it. Once. Twice. Thrice. Until his head was parted from his shoulders and her skirts soaked in his blood.

Sansa desperately willed herself not to vomit at the stench of blood or the feel of it soaking through her gown.

She stepped back and took the rag offered to her to clean the blade. As soon as it was clean, she handed the sword back to her uncle, she would not be participating in any of the other trials, others would be trying them in her name. She just had to have been the one to remove Lord Frey herself.

Sansa left the platform, thankful that her red skirts did not show the splatters of blood. She could hear the roar of the crowd as Arya and Brynden tried the other Frey conspirators, with the authority they held as Princess and Hand, but she found she was more desperate to find a bucket to be sick in than to listen in on the trials.

One was thrust at her and she emptied what little was in her stomach into it, retching a few times before looking up to see a sympathetic looking Ellaria holding out a wash cloth as well.

“It may sound terrible, but I hope the act does not become easier for you, Your Grace,” She said, running a hand gently down Sansa’s back.

“Why?”

“Because, one of the things most precious about you is your gentle heart. If you lost that it would be a tragedy indeed.”

Her tone was so motherly that Sansa felt like weeping at the comfort offered. Her own mother was on the other side of the camp, watching the executions from a hidden place, but there was very little left of that creature that could be called her mother anymore. And she certainly wouldn’t be offering comfort over killing a Frey.

Ellaria gently untangled the crown from Sansa’s hair and placed it carefully on a table, she then urged Sansa to her feet and started to undo the laces of her blood splattered gown.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and eating something, you can have a rest before the council meeting this afternoon I think, no one would judge you for it. Especially after taking your first life, it shakes even the most hardened warrior.” She said soothingly.

The gown fell to the floor, leaving Sansa in her chemise, and she stepped into a new one when directed, a pale grey that matched clouds heavy with snow. Her hands were gently taken and washed as though she were a babe again, the soft movements caused tears to fill her eyes once more.

Arms drew her into a hug once her hands were clean and she all but melted into the comfort. She loved her uncles but they were unable to offer her a mother’s brand of comfort.

Slowly, patiently, Ellaria coaxed her into eating fruits and fresh baked bread, feeding her titbits at a time, the way Sansa could remember her mother doing when she had been unwell.

Sansa eventually began to relax in the safety and comfort she was offered, her eyes slowly drifted closed as a hand carded through her hair.

She drifted off to the gentle sound of a Dornish lullaby, cradled in a mother’s arms.

* * *

Sansa had slept for longer than she would have thought she would, she awoke when the sun was at its highest point, Ellaria still carding her hand through her hair.

“Good morning,” Ellaria said softly, “Shall we get you ready for facing your council? Or would you like me to tell them you are indisposed?”

Sansa really wanted to go with the second option but her sense of duty compelled her not to. she pushed herself up, thankful she was young enough that the awkward position she had slept in did not leave her aching.

She smoothed her hands down her skirts and judged them acceptable, although, when she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, she saw her hair needed to be sorted out. Although she reached to sort it herself, gentle hands knocked hers out of the way and Ellaria swiftly braided it up in a style that would hopefully somewhat support the weight of her crown.

Sansa splashed water on her face to remove the tear tracks and exited her tent, pulling the ivory mask back over her features.

Her council was already mostly assembled when she arrived, only her sister not present. It was her smallest council, those who had participated in the lifting of the siege of Riverrun and her uncle.

It was those who knew about Lady Stoneheart 

Arya hurried into the tent, Lady and Grey-Wind loping alongside her, from the look on her face trying to come up with an excuse for being late. Sansa merely smiled; it seemed some things never changed.

“My lords, we have a decision to make.” Sansa said solemnly, “On what we should do with the one known as Lady Stoneheart and the brotherhood she leads.”

Arguments broke out among the gathered lords; calls for the brotherhood to face justice for their vigilantism, calls for them to be rewarded for their vigilantism.

The arguments raged until Edmure uncharacteristically slammed his hand down on the table.

“Argue all you like about the brotherhood, but my sister would be horrified if she could see what death had made her.” His voice was choked with both anger and grief, and Sansa had to resist the urge to place a comforting hand on his arm, “The kindest thing to do would be to release her back into the afterlife.”

A roar of outrage went through the tent, but Sansa hated how she could see his reasoning. Her mother, her kind, dutiful, honourable mother, would hate to see the creature that her death had made her.

Across the table she could see the same thought process play out on Brynden’s face.

“We can’t leave them to roam the Riverlands, but we also cannot take them North with us. Not as they are. We can absorb the men of the brotherhood into our ranks or assign them to help with routing out the last of the Lannisters, but for what remains of my niece,” Brynden sighed, “I dread to think what this shade might do, even to her own blood. Cat deserves to rest in peace, not this half-life.”

Sansa felt a tug on her arm and looked to see Arya, “You can’t let them do this Sansa. She’s our mother.”

Sansa smiled sadly, “There isn’t a lot of our mother left in Lady Stoneheart, Arya. And I’m scared of what seeing her might do to Rickon and Bran, or what her reaction might be to Jon. She barely tolerated him before, what might she do now her conscience is all but gone?”

Arya paled and looked away, evidently she hadn’t thought of that problem.

“My lords,” Sansa cut through the arguing, “I asked you this for I do not want the decision to be mine alone, I would ask you to aid me in this choice. I ask you to help me make this difficult choice.”

A few of the lord’s faces softened at her words, for while she was ashamed of the way her voice cracked it seemed to remind them that she was still young.

“If you and the princess wish to step out Your Grace, none of us will judge you.” Lord Piper said, understanding in his voice, “We can inform you when we have made our choice.”

Sansa was sorely tempted, but she shook her head. She would be as brave as Robb, as dutiful as her Father, as gracious as her Mother, she would not shirk a duty because she found it uncomfortable.

* * *

It had not taken the council long to come to a decision, not when those containing Tully blood were for releasing lady Stoneheart from her half-life so she could return to her husband and son.

They had asked Oberyn to do the deed, neither Sansa nor Arya could kill the creature, the same way the neither of their uncles could. They did not know if enough of Catelyn Stark remained within for it to constitute kinslaying, but none of them wanted to risk it.

It was to be done deep in the bowels of the Twins, deep enough they could claim that her body had been found half preserved from the cold.

Another indignity to lay upon the now deceased Walder Frey’s commands.

It was quick.

Oberyn moved as swiftly as a viper and deepened the slash at her throat until her head was gone from its shoulders and the body sank to the floor.

Arya let out a sharp cry and buried herself in Sansa’s side, Sansa herself was unable to look away from the unbleeding stump of her mother’s neck.

It was somehow easier than the death of her father had been to witness.

Despite the still air a slight breeze whispered past them, and as it moved the hair past Sansa’s ear she could have sworn she heard her mother’s voice whisper thanks.

A tear trickled down her cheek as the breeze fazed away into nothingness but a newfound strength filled her.

“We will hold her funeral at dusk, a traditional one like she would have wanted.” Sansa choked out, “We cannot linger much longer, not if we want to be in the North before Winter arrives.”

* * *

“My Lords, My Ladies, tonight we stand victorious! House Frey has fallen, House Lannister pushed out from the Riverlands, and House Bolton quaking as we ready to march on them! The Red Wedding has been avenged!” Sansa raised her goblet to cheers from the feasting men, “We honour tonight our new allies, without whom out attack on the Twins would have incurred far more losses. We honour our dead, may they be reunited with loved ones in eternal happiness. We honour you, who made this victory possible. I bid you to eat and drink and be merry and may we have many more celebrations like this!”

The bards struck up a lively beat as her toast ended, filling the hall and the fields beyond with the sound of joyous music and celebration.

“That was quite the toast Your Grace,” An oily voice said near her ear and Sansa forced herself not to flinch.

“I’m pleased you think so Lord Baelish.” She replied coolly, trying not to display her displeasure at his approach.

“I always knew you were destined for something greater than the Lannisters had planned for you. And look at you, a queen in your own right.”

His voice was thick with something Sansa did not recognise but that made her hide a shudder for disgust. She scanned the hall, searching for her uncles in the hope one would rescue her; but Brynden was talking with Lord Royce from the Vale, smiling widely and not paying attention to the high table; and Edmure was drinking with a group of young lords, grinning wildly and acting in a way that Sansa could recall Theon doing during feasts at Winterfell.

A pang filled hr heart at the thought of Theon and Winterfell, for all he hadn’t actually killed her brothers he had still betrayed them and burned the home she had grown up in.

Baelish obviously hadn’t noticed her diverted attention as he attempted to subtly place a hand on her back. Sansa froze in horror at the touch, it was unwanted and yet she couldn’t drag herself away, reverting back to the scared girl she had been in Kings Landing at his voice.

A booming laugh made Baelish snatch his hand away as Lady Maege Mormont sank down into the seat to Sansa’s left.

“I hadn’t had the chance to offer you my thanks yet, Your Grace.” She said in her gruff but kind way, “Your brother would be proud of the way you’ve avenged him.”

“Thank you, Lady Mormont. I expect you are looking forward to seeing your daughters again? Lady Lyanna must be nearly ten now?” Sansa said softly, thankful for the interruption from the Lady of Bear Island.

“Aye, little Lyanna is probably driving her sister scatty. I just hope I’m not a grandmother again when I return, that Alysane hasn’t taken advantage of me being gone to sneak her lover in again.” Lade Maege laughed, tearing at some bread in front of her, “And call me Maege, your father always did and your actions today show that you are Ned’s child through and through.”

Sansa smiled at the woman, “Thank you for your kind words, Maege, I should like to meet your daughters when we are all home. I have the feeling that Lady Lyanna would get on very well with Arya from what I have heard of her.”

Maege let out another booming laugh, “That she would. I’d offer to foster your sister with us, but I think you would shut that idea down before I could finish my sentence.”

Sansa smirked, “That I would, I have no intention of letting my siblings far out of my sight for years to come. However, Lady Lyanna would be welcome at Winterfell, as would Lady Alysane’s children.”

Maege raised her goblet in a mock toast, “I might just do that. Give me some peace from Lyanna’s sheer intensity and the hoard of ginger children my daughter claims were fathered by a bear, despite the fact I have never seen a ginger bear in all my life.”

Sansa snickered into her wine at the exasperation in Maege’s voice, it reminded her so much of the way her father would complain fondly about Robb, Theon and Jon’s hijinks.

The lady laughed along with her, “It will be good to go home, good to see them all again. And I’m sure, Queen Sansa, that you will be a good ruler. Just don’t let your gentle heart allow you to be too merciful when you should be as savage as those direwolves that follow you everywhere.”

It was sound advice, and obviously meant in good faith. She thanked Maege once more, and then, after checking that Baelish was no where nearby, thanked the lady for scaring him off.

“Don’t you worry lass; I’ll try and keep him away from you. If a man looked at my daughter the way he looks at you, his balls would hang above my door. It’s the least I can do, especially for Ned’s girl.” She took a deep drink and then looked up at Sansa with a look that could only be termed mischievous, “Did you know that there was talk of a betrothal between me and your father back in the day? Ach, I’d probably have turned his hair grey long before any children had the chance to, there was this one time...”

She then regaled Sansa with tales from the misadventures she had got up to in her youth, tales that often contained a carousel of characters Sansa knew only as dour lords.

She laughed and laughed and forgot all about Baelish.

* * *

“There has been a letter from Kings Landing, Your Grace.” Ser Garlan rushed into the tent, causing Sansa to stand abruptly, fearful of the news he might bare.

“What is it? What is so urgent that you would bare in on the Queen and her sister while they grieve their mother?” Uncle Brynden all but growled.

Ser Garlan squared his shoulders instead of flinching at Brynden’s words.

“Joffrey Baratheon is dead. Poisoned at the wedding to my sister. The Imp has been accused of killing him.”

Sansa stumbled back, feeling faint. That had not been news she had expected to hear.

Thin arms caught her and gently guided her to sit back down. And then remained, gently rubbing her arms in an attempt to provide comfort.

“Is your sister well, Ser Garlan?” She finally managed to choke out, prompting a soft smile from the knight.

“She is perfectly well, Your Grace, thankful, I believe, to be rid of her husband. I have had no letter from her however, after all I have gone rouge and she would have no need to send a letter to her traitorous brother.”

Sansa flinched at his words, recognising them as coming from her own mouth before. The small hands resumed attempting to comfort her and Sansa twisted her head to see the face of her sister.

“Sans, it’s a good thing he’s dead. it means he can’t torment you anymore.” Arya said, smiling widely.

“I thought you would have been more disappointed Arya.” Sansa managed to mutter back, “I thought it was your blade you wanted to put through his neck.”

Arya shrugged and her grin gained a bloodthirsty tinge, “His mother is still alive. My blade can wait.”

“Unfortunately, so is Tywin Lannister.” Brynden sighed, “And he has a puppet king to control. We need to be even more careful now.”

“We still hold his son.” Ser Garlan reminded them, “He’s unlikely to do anything to risk his heir.”

That was true, but they could not rely on that to keep Tywin Lannister away.

“We need to decide what to do with the Kingslayer.” Sansa said, looking straight into her uncle’s eyes.

“He can still provide us with information from Riverrun.” Edmure offered, although he looked a little shaken at the idea of hosting the man Tywin Lannister would stop at nothing to free.

Sansa shook her head at the same time as Brynden.

“No, the old Lion would have you surrounded as soon as we crossed the Neck, anxious to get his son back. We’ll have to bring him with us.” Brynden said, sounding less than thrilled with the idea of spending any length of time in the Kingslayer’s company.

“It’s no insult to you uncle,” Sansa said, turning her gaze to Edmure, “But when you are already defending the southern borders and dealing with the remains of the Freys, I highly doubt you wish to deal with a concentrated attack by Lannister.”

His expression told her all she needed to know, it was unlikely she would be able to come and help them should Tywin attack, not if she had already crossed the Neck, and Tywin Lannister might be content to bide his time while he settled into being regent, but not if his son was within such easy reach.

“Jaime Lannister will travel North with us; we’ll arrange a guard for him and he is missing a hand so unlikely to cause too much trouble.” Sansa decreed, hoping this decision wouldn’t go wrong.

Brynden dropped his head into his hands, “Great. Just what I wanted. More time with that insufferable prick Lannister.”

Arya perked up, “On the up side Uncle, if he’s too irritating, we can always take his other hand.”


	12. Arya

Arya maybe took more joy than she should have from the executions of the Frey men, she hadn't expected Sansa to actually be able to remove the head of Walder Frey, despite seeing her aim a sword at chunks of wood under the watchful eye of Brienne the entire journey there. She wasn’t surprised though that Sansa left her and Brynden to complete the trials, Sansa had never had much of a head for violence.

Arya had charged and beheaded the men who had shot her brother herself, had felt a bitter joy at their blood seeping into the dirt. It had been bittersweet, no amount of blood spilt would ever bring Robb back, would ever bring her mother or father back.

(Lady Stoneheart did not count. That creature was not her mother, for all it wore her face.)

It had hurt to hear the debate about Lady Stoneheart, she knew it was a necessity but the creature still had her mother’s face. Had hurt to see the body fall to the floor, the lack of blood somehow making it worse.

It had been a pain akin to watching her father’s death, to shoot the burning arrow into the boat her mother’s body rested in. an honour perhaps, but a painful one nonetheless. Her mother’s family’s funeral customs were so finite, so unlike the crypts of the Starks that it was hard to imagine not being able to go and honour her mother the way her father had his.

She had tried to drink at the feast, but her Uncle Brynden must have asked people to keep an eye on her as she was thwarted at every turn, the one time she managed to get a goblet of actual wine it was soon replaced by watered.

She ended up spending a lot of the feast with the girl her brother had married, Jeyne, telling her stories of Robb when he was a child. About the stupid things he used to do around Winterfell, like the time he made Jon dress as a ghost and she ended up kicking them both for scaring Bran.

Or the time he tried to make Sansa lemon cakes one year for her nameday and somehow managed to burn them and have them raw at the same time.

Or the time she had stolen his, Jon and Theon’s clothes while they were all bathing after training, making them run back to their rooms wrapped only in blankets.

The final story had Jeyne in tears from laughing so hard, she said that she could almost picture it happening as she had done the same to her own brothers at one point. The man who had been sat next to her grumbled at that, and told her that he remembered it very well and that she was a horrible sister.

Arya just cackled at the expression on Raynald Westerling’s face as his sister began to tease him, telling him that he shouldn’t be so rude to the woman who was once his queen and in front of the princess no less! It was nice to be surrounded by people who actually seemed to care for one another.

It made her feel like she was almost home.

* * *

They had been two days North of the Twins when Nymeria’s pack caught up with them.

Nymeria’s return had been like coming home, like a piece of her she hadn’t realised missing was returned. But still when she saw who Nymeria had dragged along with her she felt like running off to never be seen again.

The fact that her wolf had somehow managed to drag Gendry of all people across the Riverlands to her was just embarrassing.

“Milady,” Gendry bowed awkwardly to her and Arya felt like punching him right in his stupid face.

“Don’t call me that!” She snapped at him, harshly enough that he actually took a step backwards.

“Well what should I call you then? You are a princess and word is that you are betrothed to a high lord.” He asked in a too reasonable tone that did nothing to diminish her urge to punch him. “I thought you never wanted to marry anyway, thought you said it was stupid.”

Arya flushed and looked away, “It is stupid but, ‘Family, Duty, Honour.’ We needed the alliance and I agreed to it, it was my duty to my family.”

She could hear the misery in her own voice and evidently Gendry could too, as his arms wrapped around her hesitantly.

“I- I could come with you.” He offered, sounding very unsure.

Arya felt hope and something else blossom in her gut, “You would? You’d come with me even when I’m supposed to be a ‘lady’?”

“Milady, I left a perfectly good trade job in the hope of finding you at a War Camp. I followed a wolf pack across half a country looking for you. I think it has been established that I’m a little fond of you.”

Arya had no idea what the fluttering emotion in her stomach at Gendry’s words or the way his eyes were so earnest was, but she most definitely did not like it.

She could see her uncle getting ready to approach them, now that they had reunited, and she selfishly did not want the moment to end.

“Who is this Arya?” Brynden said, looking directly at Gendry.

Arya decided to be deliberately obtuse and instead placed a hand on Nymeria’s head, “This is Nymeria, she’s Lady and Grey-Wind’s packmate.”

Her uncle raised his eyes to the heavens as though asking the gods for strength, “I gathered who the direwolf was Arya, I was asking about the boy.”

“Gendry Waters, milord.” Gendry said, keeping his gaze towards the ground.

“And how did you come to know my niece, Gendry Waters?”

“He helped me when we escaped Kings Landing,” Arya answered before Gendry had the chance to, “He’s a blacksmith.”

Brynden’s face gained an expression that Arya didn’t recognise but that made her shift as though she had been caught stealing sweets from the kitchens.

“Is that so? Well then, Gendry Waters, be welcome at our camp. We can always use another blacksmith, especially one who saved my niece.”

* * *

“You need to control the people’s opinions of you.” Arya bluntly said, looking at her sister with a stern gaze, “At the moment you are liked because you aren’t a Lannister. You need to make it so you are loved for being you, otherwise you won’t hold their loyalty.”

Sans looked at her in shock and Arya felt like rolling her eyes, her sister might be the ruler of half a continent but she was still naïve of many things.

“You want the smallfolk to love you, you need to make them think of you as benevolent. Feed and clothe them yes, help their orphans and veterans, but you need to tell them about these actions. Without making it look like you’re bragging.” She continued, “Control the songs sung in your kingdom, spread word of your exploits and people will love you and your story, the way you love your own heroes.”

Arya could all but see the thoughts swirling around Sansa’s head, she didn’t blame her sister for not thinking of it, she had never spent much time among the smallfolk, not the way Arya had.

“I’d never thought about anything like that,” Sansa confessed, “I’ve been so concerned with avenging our family I haven’t thought of much more, and with us going North I doubt I will. Would, would you take care of it? I know its not usual, but I trust you.”

Arya was taken aback.

“Are you asking me to be your Master of Whispers?”

Sansa let out a shocked laugh, “I suppose I am. What do you say? Will you guard my back and help shape the people’s opinions of me?”

There was really only one answer to that.

“As long as you promise never to sheep shift my bed again.”

She savoured the look of outrage on Sansa’s face, an expression she had inexplicably missed. She was fully aware of how hypocritical that request was, she had been the one to sheep shift Sansa’s bed more often than not, after all.

“You were the one who used to sheep shift my bed!” Sansa cried, reaching towards Arya as though to tug at her hair.

Arya danced out of the way with a grin, then ducked under Sansa’s arms to dig her fingers into her sister’s ribs.

Sansa shrieked and batted at her, Arya just grinned harder and continued to tickle her sister, eventually knocking her to the floor with the force of her giggles.

Arya could see the tent flaps open out of the corner of her eye, and her uncle poke his head though the gap, only to smile and remove it when he saw what was going on. She took it a tacit approval and kept up her assault on her sister, she didn’t plan to stop until Sansa was crying from laughter.

* * *

“Again.” Brienne ordered as Arya finished the movement she had been ordered to, “You’re leaving your right side open.”

Every muscle in Arya’s body ached but she didn’t care, she raised Needle once more and got back into the first position of the set that Brienne had ordered her to do.

She hadn’t believed it when Brienne had approached her, saying that Sansa had asked her to train Arya. Hadn’t believed that Sansa of all people would ask someone to train her.

Sometimes she wondered if Sansa had hit her head that day.

A rusty chuckle rang out as she finished the set of exercises once more, and Arya could see annoyance and fondness in equal measure flash across Brienne’s face.

“She’s never going to master that Wench.” The Kingslayer mocked, “She and her sword are far too little.”

Arya felt a flush of anger at those words, even if she could see the truth in them. She didn’t have the same strength as Brienne, she couldn’t get the power behind her blade to make the movements effective.

“Well then what would you suggest Ser Jaime,” There was a note to Brienne’s voice that Arya was really interested in, “Since you’ve decided you know how best to train my squire.”

The Kingslayer approached Arya then, and held his left hand out as if asking her to place her sword in it. When she refused, she was not idiot who would give a weapon to a prisoner, he merely huffed and took up a wooden training blade instead.

“You’ve heard stories of Ser Arthur Dayne, he used a short sword, similar to the one you hold. Your fighting style needs to be like his was, fluid and fast. There is no need for power when you enemy is poked full of holes before they can even swing their sword at you.” He said in a lecturing tone, jabbing the training sword with clumsy grace.

Arya could see what he meant, and while part of her wanted to be annoyed at him for interrupting her training, another part wanted to hear stories about the Sword of the Morning; he had always been one of her and Bran’s favourite heroes.

“Arya, cool down and tend to your sword and then your dismissed for the day,” Brienne said abruptly, not taking her eyes off Jaime Lannister, “Ser Jaime and I need to have a conversation.”

Normally Arya would have complained, but she didn’t want to get in the way of whatever was going on between the two of them. She scampered off, thankful for the chance to rest her aching muscles, only to run into a confused Sansa.

“I thought you had training?”

“I did, but Brienne and the Kingslayer are arguing over how best to train me.” Arya shrugged.

Sansa gained a knowing look, “Ah.”

“Do they like each other?” Arya knew her tone was a little whining but didn’t care. Her sister lay a hand on her shoulder.

“I think they might do. Although I doubt they’ve realised it just yet.”

Arya huffed; how could people be so stupid?

Sansa smirked at her, “Anyway, who exactly is Gendry, then than someone who followed a wolf pack and rumours to find you again?”

“No one. He’s stupid.”

“I think you might like him.”

Of course she liked him, he was her friend! She told Sansa as much, and was not prepared to see the smirk develop into a full blown grin.

“I meant you Like him.”

Arya scowled, ignoring the slight flutter in her chest at the thought of him, “No I don’t. Anyway, you liked Joffrey so you have no room to talk.”

She was deeply pleased to see the indignant flush cover her sister’s face.

“I did not!”

Arya raised an eyebrow, causing Sansa’s flush to deepen.

“I didn’t!” Sansa insisted, “I was just doing what was expected of me. I, uhh, I think I might be like Uncle Brynden actually.”

“But you’ve always wanted to get married? Why wouldn’t you now?”

Her sister ducked her head and looked away, “No, I mean how he is with Prince Oberyn.”

Something in Arya’s head clicked as the interactions she had seen of her uncle and the prince took on a new light. The frequent touches, the smirks, the fact she had seen them leaving each other’s tents on occasion. They were more than just friends. Which meant…

“You like a girl?”

Sansa’s cheeks likely could have cooked a meal they were so hot, “Yes, Ser Garlan’s sister. Margaery.”

Arya tilted her head, if the sister was at all similar in looks to Ser Garlan, she could see why her sister would find the lady attractive.

“Huh.”

“You aren’t going to tell me it wrong?” Sansa sounded so scared, not like her sister normally did at all.

“Why would I?” Arya was genuinely confused, “The Old Gods don’t forbid it, and why would I care who you want to kiss as longs as its not Joffrey?”

She looked up at Sansa and thought she saw tears start in her sister’s eyes. She did not want to deal with Sansa if she started crying. She never had done, and never will.

Arya thought about for maybe a second and then ran off, maybe Gendry would be willing to talk with her.

* * *

“I made this for Rickon, for his nameday.” Sansa held something made of cloth out to Arya who had no choice but to take it.

With it in her hands she could inspect it properly and realised it was a cloth doll, with short red wool for hair, dressed in grey and white, with a little wire crown atop its head.

“Is this- is this Robb?” She asked, turning the doll around in her hands.

Sansa nodded, “Jon mentioned that Rickon misses Robb the most so I thought it might be nice for him to have a Robb of his own.”

Arya couldn’t decide if that was adorable or morbid, and told Sansa so.

Sansa snorted at her words, “I hope it’s more adorable than morbid, if he likes it then I’ll make him a whole set. I was going to make him a direwolf, but we don’t have the fur to spare, not if we’re to clothe everyone appropriately for Winter.”

She looked more closely at the doll, it was very well made, and Sansa had managed to catch their brother’s likeness well with her embroidery floss.

“It is cute. Lets just hope Rickon doesn’t get a complex because of it.” She finally admitted, handing the doll back. “Should I have made something for Rickon?”

The smile Sansa sent her was all their mother’s, “No, he’ll be happy just to have a letter from you. I just didn’t want him to not receive any gifts on his nameday.”

Sansa reached to a parcel sat on her desk and exchanged it for the doll, she motioned for Arya to open it. Arya did and was surprised to see a pile of tunics, breeches, and jerkins, all made from grey, white or black fabric.

“I thought you might be pleased to not be wearing Uncle Edmure’s old clothes.” Sansa said, twirling a lock of hair anxiously, “So I made you these, some of them are made from Robb’s old things but I thought you wouldn’t mind too much. I know you hate dresses.”

Arya was lost for words as she sifted through the clothing, as Sansa had said it was obvious some of it was made from repurposed cloth but she found she didn’t care, even if the Arya from before they left Winterfell might have. There were even wolves embroidered on the tunics, an Arya didn’t want to think of how long those must have taken Sansa, considering the detail each of them boasted.

She gently set the clothes to the side and launched herself at Sansa, gripping her into a tight hug.

She’d never thought in her life she would voluntarily hug Sansa as much as she had since they’d been reunited. It felt right though, felt like something their parents would have smiled upon.

Even if she was still looking forwards to being reunited with her brothers once more, partially so there were others for Sansa to focus her attention on.


	13. Jon

The last of the Free Folk to make it through the wall were eagerly anticipated by everyone, it meant that they no longer had to worry about attack from the Far North and instead settle into arranging their habitation. It was a change in tasks that Jon just knew was going to mean more work for him.

Especially because already some of the lords were complaining over the Free Folk.

Jon stood in the courtyard of Castle Black, as had become his custom, ignoring the glares from Baratheon’s men, ready to welcome the Free Folk to the North. To welcome them, and have Rickon welcome them as well, so that they might recognise the family which was in charge while they resided there.

If the sight of little Rickon, solemn in the grey outfit a seamstress in Mole’s Town had made for him, made some of the most hardened Free Folk coo and smiles fill their faces, then that was a bonus.

This group of Free Folk were made even more special by the people travelling with them, Tormund’s daughters were supposed to be with this group, along with their mother. And Jon didn’t know why his heart clenched at the thought of her.

As soon as the last person was through the gates they clanged shut with a sort of finality.

Jon moved among them, greeting them and watching as Rickon copied his actions at his side. It was swift work after so much practise, a welcoming word here, a promise of shelter there, the occasional ruffle of curls on a child’s head.

The last people they got to were the ones Jon had been both looking forward to and dreading, a woman and two small girls with the only fiery locks in the group. He opened his mouth to speak but Rickon beat him to it.

“Are you Tormund’s daughters?” Rickon looked at the little girls with confusion.

Both the girls nodded, and Jon wondered where Rickon was going with his question, since it was obvious that they were from their bright flyaway hair to the nose that was obviously Tormund’s.

“But, you’re both much prettier than Jon so you can’t be.”

Guffaws broke out among the assembled Free Folk and men of the Nights Watch at Rickon’s innocent words and Jon could feel his face heat up.

A heavy hand landed on Jon’s shoulder and he glanced up to see Tormund’s bright blue eyes and large grin.

“Well, Little Firewolf, as lovely as my daughters are, how could they not be when they are kissed by fire? Your brother is a different kind of pretty. A delicate sort of pretty, like a princess in a story.” Tormund explained, his words prompting even more laughs from the men, although Rickon nodded his head like he understood.

“So your daughters are pretty, but Jon is prettier because he is a princess?”

Jon thought some of the men might break ribs from how hard they were laughing at Rickon’s innocent words.

“Ach, Tormund. Don’t tease the boy.” The woman who must be the girls’ mother interjected, “Just because he’s pretty as a princess doesn’t give you leave to embarrass him in front of his men.”

Tormund ducked his head and looked almost shamed by her words.

The woman turned to Jon and bowed her head slightly, “I am Karsi, and if you would ever like any tips on how to deal with the great ginger lug behind you then I will be very happy to give them to you. He needs his ego deflating sometimes.”

Jon inclined his head back, “I might well take you up on that offer Lady Karsi, for now would you and your daughters care to join myself and my brother for a meal? I should like to discuss your options for living below the Wall.”

He held out an arm as though he was at a fancy feast for her to take, which she did so with what could only be termed a giggle and a sly look at Tormund.

He escorted her to the hall that had been aired out for their use, one that previously had not been used for decades. The food wasn’t particularly appetizing but it was hot and filling which was what really mattered, Jon was planning on seeing if he could have something special made though to celebrate Rickon’s upcoming nameday.

“Your sister is the queen of this land.” Karsi shot Jon with a fierce look that nearly had him stepping back, “I want to meet the woman who has managed to claim power in a land controlled by men.”

Jon had to stifle a laugh, he really wanted to see Sansa – who had always been very proper and prim, meet a spear wife of the Free Folk, he could only imagine how such a meeting would go. Arya however, Arya would love to meet Karsi and her companions, would pester them for as many stories as they would tell.

“Your daughters are lovely girls, my lady,” Jon said instead of voicing his thoughts, “I struggle enough with my little brother there, I don’t know what I would do if there was more than just him.”

Karsi snorted and batted his arm, “I am no lady. And you’ve done a good job with your brother, he isn’t maimed and looks well fed, that’s all that we can do sometimes.”

Her words relaxed a part of Jon that had been panicking over his care of Rickon, he knew he perhaps didn’t give his brother the attention he needed at times, that he could not provide the education that Rickon deserved, and it had been worrying him more than he wanted to admit.

“Now lad, tell me all about the trouble that Tormund has caused and I will tell you how best to deal with him. We need to stick together after all.”

Jon wondered a little at her words but did not pry, if she could tell him how to deal with Tormund when he was intent on teaching Rickon things that a boy of four had no business knowing then he would be eternally grateful.

* * *

_‘Jon of House Stark, Prince of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, _

_Brother, I write to you with good news. The Twins have fallen, the Freys are gone. Our brother’s bones have been retrieved. _

_When this missive reaches you we will be marching North, to Winterfell. Messages are being sent to the Northern lords, asking for their assistance, asking for them to bend the knee. _

_House Umber, House Mormont and House Manderly have already resworn their vows to us. I would ask you to accept the men those Houses have pledged to send, to allow them to defend you and Rickon against any threat the Boltons might pose. _

_As for Stannis Baratheon, do what you will to forge an alliance with him. I will be happy to discuss terms with him when I reach the North, but I would ask you, dear brother, to lay out the groundwork for one. _

_We will need his help to remove the Lannisters, if only because I have no desire to sit upon the iron Throne myself. _

_A messenger carrying a gift for Rickon’s nameday should arrive within a fortnight, he will be accompanied by the first of the Manderly men. _

_Until then, move from Castle Black, reports indicate that the Nights Watch is in no fit state to repel any invaders and it will be the first place that Bolton will look for you. _

_Should anyone attempt to disturb the peace by attacking the Free Folk you have my full, if reluctant, permission to execute them. We cannot have infighting when the Boltons still claim to own the North._

_Keep safe. Keep Rickon safe. _

_Love, _

_Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, Queen of the Riverlands, Queen of the Vale._

_Post script: Know that I am incredibly annoyed at you letting Bran go off beyond the Wall, even with a guide. You’d better have a good explanation for it. _

_Post, post script: Arya sends her love.’_

Jon did so love the letters he received from his sister, they always seemed to contain new problems for him to solve. He had no desire whatsoever to enter official talks with Stannis Baratheon, if the pompous way the man believed he was always right wasn’t bad enough, the Red Priestess whispering in his ear made everything much worse.

She stared at him across rooms and hallways, gazing at him as though he was a piece of meat to be bought at market. It was uncomfortable and he tried to keep Rickon away from her, especially once he heard some of Stannis’ men talking about her rituals using the ‘blood of kings’.

Rickon had the blood of a king and a queen, he dreaded to think of what she might do with him.

From the sound of Sansa’s letter though he would soon be receiving reinforcements in his attempt to keep Rickon safe, Manderly men at that meaning they would likely be well provisioned.

It would be easier to protect Rickon when he was surrounded by good Northmen sworn to their house, ones that might contain a lord who could help him reinforce Rickon’s lessons, it being difficult to get the boy to obey protocol and lordly manners when surrounded by Free Folk all the time.

He was desperately looking forward to Sansa being North, looking forward to her having to deal with Baratheon instead of him.

He pressed his head against the desk, the way he had seen his father do once, and prayed that somehow Sansa would magically appear so he didn’t have to speak with the self-proclaimed king.

She didn’t appear.

Jon groaned and levered himself up from his desk, better to get the start of the negotiations over and done with before another problem presented itself.

He’d be lucky if he could get to the end of the day without another problem presenting itself, even more so now that Rickon had playmates in the form of Munda and Torva. The three seemed to constantly find trouble, ending up coated in mud more often than not, and scampering around the castle with Shaggydog and Ghost at their heels.

He dragged himself to the study Baratheon had claimed for his own despite the grumbling of Thorne at hosting two sets of royalty. He knocked on the door to ask for entry, mentally running over all the protocol he would need to use in order not to offend Baratheon’s prickly temper.

When admitted he was relieved to see Ser Davos there, even if the witch was as well, Ser Davos seemed the most reasonable out of all of them.

“Your Grace,” He bowed his head to just the appropriate level of deference for a prince to a foreign ruler, a level he only knew thanks to Sansa’s insistence in accuracy in her fantasy games.

Baratheon looked like he could smell something nasty but responded in kind, “Prince Jon.”

“I come on behalf of my sister, the Queen of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale,” Jon started, noting how Baratheon’s nostrils flared with every kingdom Jon named as belonging to Sansa, “She wishes to form an alliance, the better to remove the Lannisters from power.”

Baratheon laid down his quill and folded his hands in front of his face, “And why would I agree to that? Why should I side with a traitor to the Iron Throne?”

Jon really struggled not to snap his next words, “Because, Your Grace, you are also a traitor to the Iron Throne. And you need my sister a lot more than she needs you.”

Various different emotions flashed across Baratheon’s face, Jon was only able to identify maybe two of them, that of rage and exasperation.

Ser Davos stepped in at that point, as Jon had expected him to, “Perhaps you could elaborate on that.”

Jon shrugged, “Its simple. Queen Sansa has the outright support of three kingdoms, and alliances within the Reach and Dorne. You have maybe half the houses from the Stormlands supporting you? And some of the houses from the Crownlands? You will need the support she has if you ever want to have any chance at claiming the Iron Throne, and you have no hope of removing her without resorting to trickery and betrayal on par with Tywin Lannister, Walder Frey and Roose Bolton.”

He was sure that had Baratheon had a sword on his person it would have been drawn on him at that moment, so great was the fury in his eyes at Jon’s words.

Once more Ser Davos stepped in, “What terms does Queen Sansa offer us in this alliance?”

Jon put on his most official voice, “Queen Sansa would like to discuss the final terms in person; however I can say she will not be giving up her kingdoms to be subjugated under the Iron Throne once more. I also feel like I should point out, that in addition to Queen Sansa having more support and larger armies, she also has the Kingslayer as her captive.”

“Why then, Jon Snow, does your sister not simply declare herself another pretender for the throne that is rightfully mine? Why does your sister not try to claim all the kingdoms if she is so loved?” There was a touch of fanaticism in Baratheon’s tone and Jon had to force himself not to step back and betray his unease.

“Because, Lord Stannis,” He knew he was being petty with his address but he found he didn’t care, “My sister does not want the Iron Throne. She will sit on it if it is asked of her but she will never claim it for herself. All she wants is peace and prosperity for the kingdoms, for the people, that have chosen her to rule.”

A strange look crossed Baratheon’s face at that, one that on anyone else Jon would have said was respect.

Jon hurriedly continued before someone could interrupt him, “Queen Sansa is willing to support your claim for the Iron throne because our Father supported your claim, however should you turn her down she is more than willing to put a Martell or a Tyrell on the throne instead. Perhaps you should think on that, my Lord.”

Jon all but ran out of the room as soon as he had finished speaking, not wanting to see the fury that undoubtedly crossed Baratheon’s face at his words, unwilling to listen to a lecture by the priestess about how her god proclaimed Baratheon was the true king.

He had heard it all before and most assuredly did not care to listen again.

Not when Rickon had undoubtedly managed to find some form of trouble to get himself into.

* * *

Tensions were high when the Manderly troops were spotted arriving at Castle Black, and Jon felt such a great relief at seeing them he nearly stumbled.

In a sort of petty vengeance for Jon’s words Baratheon had refused to discipline his men who delighted in agitating the Free Folk, it meant Jon had been putting out metaphorical (and in one case literal) fires for over a week in an attempt to prevent bloodshed.

He was exhausted.

The only silver lining had been Karsi allowing Rickon to join in when she was teaching her daughters, it meant that he had one less thing to worry about while rushing around. Especially since Rickon was slightly sacred of Karsi and so wouldn’t run off on her like he did sometimes with Osha.

Well, Tormund backing him up in those incidents had been a little bit of a silver lining as well. The fact that he had trusted Jon was doing the right thing had made Jon feel all warm inside.

He had forced Rickon to bathe to greet the troops coming to join them, he needed to make a good impression on them if a lord was among the group. They needed to see their Crown Prince as royalty instead of as a wild child.

His brother had a grumpy expression at being stuffed back into his more formal clothes, instead of the amalgamation of furs in the style of the Free Folk he usually wore. He squirmed and quietly complained about the fabric itching and his hair being combed. Jon could also sense Shaggydog’s displeasure at being brushed from Rickon’s side, although the black direwolf was surprisingly unsnappy, something Jon was sure Ghost had to do with.

Jon removed the hand on his brother’s shoulder holding Rickon still as the castle gates opened to reveal a line of troops dressed in the green and black of House Manderly and carrying both the merman banner and the Stark direwolf. At their head was a man Jon vaguely recognised from feasts at Winterfell and a trip to White Harbour in his youth, Lord Manderly’s son and heir Ser Wylis.

Lord Manderly must really want to impress Sansa if he sent his son to be a part of Rickon’s guard all the way at the Wall. It wasn’t that surprising though, not when the Manderlys had always been known to attempt to curry favour with the Starks, it would make sense for them to try even harder now that they ruled three kingdoms.

The lord dismounted his horse and performed a low Southern style bow aimed at Rickon, and to a lesser extent, Jon.

“Crown Prince Rickon, Prince Jon, it is an honour to serve you both.” Ser Wylis said with a level of deference in his voice that Jon had never expected to ever have aimed his way.

“Thank you, Ser Wylis. We are relieved by your swift arrival, events here have become far more tense than you may have heard.” Jon inclined his head in acknowledgment, the way he had seen Bran and Robb do back when Father was alive.

“Queen Sansa ordered us to aid you with all haste and to aid you in any way we might. She also,” The knight shifted and a spot of colour tinged his cheeks, “She ordered me to pass this message on as well.”

He suddenly moved forwards and before Jon could react pressed a dry kiss to first Rickon and the Jon’s foreheads.

A deep scowl overtook Rickon’s features and Jon found himself lost for words. Somehow, he knew that was part of Sansa’s revenge for letting Bran go beyond the Wall.

“Apologies, my lords, but the Queen was very explicit in her orders in the letter she sent with my cousin.” Ser Wylis determinedly did not look at either of them and Jon didn’t blame the gruff knight.

He made a promise to himself that someday he would embarrass Sansa as she had embarrassed him.

“No apologies needed my lord,” Jon said, his voice as even as he could make it, “My sister has always taken enjoyment from embarrassing her brothers.”

He gently nudged Rickon to remind him that he needed to speak as well, to welcome the men who had travelled so far to protect him.

“Thank you, my lord.” Rickon said in his high little boy voice, “For traveling so far on behalf of my family.”

They were he words they had practiced, and Jon was thankful that Rickon had remembered them, that his wild brother had remembered the courtesies he thought so boring.

“If your men would set up camp outside the Castle, my lord,” Jon said, turning his head to the arrangements he had discussed with Ser Alliser, “There is room in the castle for you and your commanders however, and we would be pleased if you joined us for the evening meal.”

Ser Wylis accepted the offer and bowed once more, another flowery thing more suited to Southern courts than the cold of the North, before turning to order his men around.

When they had left the courtyard Jon led Rickon back inside and allowed him to change out of his formal clothes into a more comfortable set, although they still weren’t his Free Folk-esque furs.

“Is kissing a normal greeting for kneelers? Should I be offended you didn’t greet me like that Pretty Crow?” Tormund said conversationally as they watched Rickon race around the hall.

Jon’s head was suddenly filled by the thought of Tormund kissing him and his cheeks flushed.

He turned his head so Tormund couldn’t see the way his cheeks had heated and prayed his voice did not betray his thoughts as he answered.

“It was Sansa’s idea of a joke; she’s still upset we let Bran go further North chasing a dream of all things.” He paused as a thought occurred to him, “I wouldn’t be surprised if Arya had had a hand in it as well, she always could be a little vindictive.”

Tormund let out a laugh at that and placed his warm hand on Jon’s back, “I think I will like these sisters of yours, Pretty Crow.”

An irrational spark of jealousy shot up Jon’s spine at that, he knew what Tormund meant and yet couldn’t help but feel like he would like Jon’s trueborn siblings better than him, the way everyone around Winterfell had.

The hand on his back moved so he was pulled into Tormund’s side, his arm heavy across Jon’s shoulders.

“Don’t look like that Pretty Crow, you’ll always be my favourite.” Tormund said, squeezing him a little.

The warmth that bloomed in his gut at those words and the feeling of Tormund pressed along his side caused Jon to relax for the first time in days.

It was nice to feel wanted.

* * *

Rickon’s nameday had come with a horrifying quickness, his baby brother had reached the age at which Jon himself had started to learn to use a sword. The though of Rickon with his chubby cheeks and wild curls drilling sword forms was a horrifying image to Jon’s mind, one he wanted to put off despite knowing it would only harm Rickon in the long run if he did.

He could have a day or so though, to get used to the idea, to celebrate that despite the odds against him Rickon had survived another year.

Jon had arranged for a special meal to be prepared, its was no where near the scale of ones they had had at Winterfell, but it wouldn’t feel right to let the day go by unnoticed. The meal itself was being prepared by Osha, some sort of Free Folk recipe prepared using rabbits Tormund had trapped that day.

He had had to invite Ser Wylis to the meal, it would be unwise to offend their protector after all, but also Karsi and her daughters, and a number of the other Free Folk who Rickon liked. He had even sent an invitation to Lady Shireen at Rickon’s request although he doubted she would be allowed to attend by her father.

He had been handed a package by Ser Wylis, one that had come all the way from Sansa for the occasion, and he planned to give it to Rickon at the meal, along with a wooden sword all of his own.

The way father had gifted he, and Robb, and Bran each with a wooden sword when they turned five.

Karsi and her daughters had insisted on decorating the hall with boughs of evergreen, saying it would bless Rickon’s year to come. Jon hadn’t protested, seeing that everyone needed some reason to celebrate and forget the danger coming for at least a day.

Rickon’s eyes had lit up when Jon carried him into the Hall, his eyes dancing from the decorated walls, to the rabbits roasting over the fire, to the small parcel awaiting him on a table.

“Is this all for me?” He had shout-whispered to Jon.

Jon had smiled and bounced him, “Yes, sweetling, everyone is here to celebrate you! Isn’t that lovely?”

Rickon had nodded and grinned and squirmed to be placed down so that he could explore the room and the people at will.

Jon had obeyed and watched happily as Rickon had darted to and fro, excitedly exploring everything with Shaggydog at his side. When Rickon reached the table with the parcels on he stopped and looked imperiously at everyone until they came to watch him unwrap them.

His squeals of delight over the wooden sword made Jon feel marginally better for giving him the gift, although he doubted the delight would remain when Rickon realised that learning to fight was hard work.

Jon watched more closely as Rickon unpacked the package from Sansa, out from it fell three scrolls, one with Jon’s name on which he snatched up to see it was an explanation of the contents, a small bow, two tunics, and a little cloth doll also fell out and Rickon poked at them all with excitement.

“The bow is from your uncles, Rickon, the tunics, one is from the Tyrells, the other from the Martells, and the doll is from Sansa.” Jon explained, reading the letter properly.

Rickon snatched up the doll, turning it over and over in his hands before a huge grin split his face, “Jon! Jon! Its Robb!”

The doll was thrust at Jon and he could see that it was indeed made to have their brother’s likeness, something that he personally found a little creepy but evidently Rickon loved.

Rickon was just about to inspect the bow when the door to the hall opened and they were interrupted by someone they very much did not expect.

“Begging your pardon if I’m interrupting, only I have a gift for the little prince on his nameday,” Ser Davos said, barely entering the room.

At a nod from Jon he entered the room fully and crossed to hand Rickon something pulled from a pocket of his cloak.

“Its Shaggy!” Rickon said in glee, and Jon could see that it was indeed a carving of Shaggydog, complete with carved tufts of hair.

“Carved it myself,” Ser Davos said with no little pride, “Five is an important age and shouldn’t go uncelebrated, I’ll leave you to your celebrations now though.”

He turned to leave and Jon was struck by the thought that it would help him immensely if Ser Davos was on his side when attempting to convince Stannis Baratheon.

“Ser Davos,” He called, “You are more than welcome to stay, there is enough for all, if you think your king won’t be displeased.”

The old knight turned and smiled, “If I won’t be an imposition, I think I’d like that.”

Jon merely gestured for him to take a chair, allowing the man to make a decision. Ser Davos looked at it for a moment then sat, striking up a conversation quite happily with Ser Wylis, who looked very pleased to no longer be alone among the Free Folk.

They had all just started to settle down again, just started to eat the fragrant meat when a knock sounded on the door and it was pushed open by a worried looking Edd.

“Jon, there’s a letter for you. From Bolton.”

He just couldn't get one bloody day of peace could he?

* * *

_‘To the traitor and deserter Jon Snow, _

_You have allowed thousands of Wildlings below the Wall, you have betrayed your own kind, you have betrayed the North._

_Winterfell is in my hand’s bastard, come and see._

_You harbour traitors to the North; you protect traitors to the Iron Throne._

_Deliver them to me or I shall destroy the Nights Watch._

_Deliver them to me or I shall kill your precious Wildlings_

_Deliver them to me or you will watch as my hounds eat your brothers._

_Deliver them to me or you will watch as I rape your false queen sister._

_Deliver them to me or I will flay you slowly until you are begging me to kill you. _

_Deliver me your traitor brothers or I will come for them myself. _

_And tell Baratheon that unless he wants to end up like the last lord I captured he should also surrender… otherwise I’m sure his daughter would make good sport for my hounds. _

_Signed,_

_Ramsay Bolton, Heir to Winterfell.’_


	14. Sansa

They had moved swiftly up through the Neck, not wanting to linger too long around the swamps for fear of disease and lizard-lions. Sansa had not realised how fast an army of this size could move when sufficiently motivated, their previous marches either slow from the necessity of avoiding attention or to allow coordination with another army.

There was a widespread aura of relief as they spotted Moat Cailin, even without knowing who held the fort, simply because it meant they were out of the Neck and in the North.

Wooden stakes forming ‘x’s lined the Kingsroad leading up to the castle, most of which were darkened as though stained. The more they passed, the lower the mood became as the ‘x’s forcibly reminded everyone of the foe they were to face.

It was with some surprise then that the banners noted to be hanging from the ramparts of Moat Cailin were the Lizard-lion of House Reed alongside the direwolf of House Stark. It was unexpected and yet made a strange sort of sense, if any House was to take Moat Cailin from the Boltons or Ironborn then House Reed would have the easiest time of it.

They did not lower their guard however, there was always the potential that it was a trap, that the banners had been put in place to make them complacent.

A small force of men dressed in green and brown rode out to meet them upon the sturdy ponies the craggonmen used, holding the banner of House Reed and the white banner asking for safe passage to talk.

They were allowed to pass through the front guard until they reached where Sansa rode with Arya and her uncle, her personal guard around her.

“We come on behalf of Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch. He has retaken Moat Cailin from the Boltons on behalf of you, Queen Sansa, and your family. He bids you join him for the evening meal, to discuss your plans for removing the traitors from the North.” The leader of the group said, bowing in his saddle as he greeted them.

Sansa exchanged a look with her uncle, who nodded his head slightly, indicating that they should accept.

“We would be honoured to break bread with your lord,” Sansa said in what she hoped was a gracious voice, “Please, lead us to him.”

The lead rider nodded and started to lead them all into Moat Cailin, the entire time Sansa’s guard were alert for any signs of a ruse or ambush awaiting them as they entered beneath the first tower.

No such danger awaited them however, simply a man about her father’s age, garbed entirely in mottled green and brown, the only thing to distinguish him from his men the sigil stitched on it cloak.

“Queen Sansa,” He knelt before her as she dismounted.

Sansa didn’t think she would ever get used to grown men kneeling before her, but by now she was well versed in the protocol surrounding it.

“Lord Reed, I thank you for your warm welcome. My men are weary from our trek up the Neck, I would ask that they are settled before any official business is to take place.”

Shock and a touch of respect showed on Lord Reed’s face as she bid him rise. It seemed that her caring for her men was something he approved of, if unexpected.

“While I understand you position, Your Grace, there are things you should be made aware of as soon as possible.” Lord Reed said, quietly but assuredly.

Sansa looked him straight in the eyes before nodding, she quickly ordered Ser Garlan and Lord Umber to lead the set up of the camp, while she followed Lord Reed into the castle, joined by her Uncle and Lady Mormont.

“What do you know of the Boltons, Your Grace?” Lord Reed asked as soon as they were in a damp hall, the fire burning in the grate doing nothing to warm the room.

“Only what I was taught at Winterfell really,” Sansa answered honestly, “Why, is there something I should know?”

Lord Reed let out a heavy sigh, “It seems, Your Grace, that they never stopped their torturous ways, merely hid them from your family. When we arrived at this castle the Kingsroad was lined with flayed Ironborn in both directions, the Bolton soldier we captured said it was the work of the bastard of Bolton. You are going to need to be far more careful against them than you were in the Riverlands.”

It was sound advice, even if the thought of the brutality the Boltons had spread across her land made Sansa want to be sick.

“Do you have any knowledge on the troops Bolton commands?” Brynden leaned forwards, “Any idea of where he will fight?”

Lord Reed shook his head, “I would say that he would try and make you siege Winterfell, he knows you will be averse to damaging the castle, and with Winter rapidly approaching he would likely be able to outlast you. As for the size of his forces? Maybe eight thousand?”

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Sansa knew that.

It also wasn’t as good as it could have been. They had been hoping that Roose Bolton would choose the Dreadfort as his final stand instead, that he would attempt to lever the home advantage over them.

If he was in Winterfell though, well Lord Reed was right, they would try all they could to avoid destroying the castle.

Sansa swallowed, “Tell me all you can about the atrocities Roose Bolton and his bastard have inflicted on my people.”

The Lord of Greywater Watch looked reluctant but he did.

And Sansa listened and remembered. They would be answering for far more than just the Red Wedding when she got hold of them.

* * *

Sansa stalked through the camp looking for the Kingslayer, they had received word from Kings landing about his family, and she did not believe anyone deserved to gain news of their loved ones through the rumour mill. She was aiming towards the makeshift training grounds, almost certain she would find him there bickering with Lady Brienne over many things, including Brienne’s training of Arya.

Sure enough he stood there, demonstrating a stance for Arya while Lady Brienne looked on with a pinched expression.

“Ser Jaime.” Her voice drew attention to her presence there in the makeshift training yard and men hastily bowed before her, but she found she didn’t care much for the show of deference, not when she had a task to compete.

“Your Grace,” he said with only a hint of the mockery she had come to expect. “What can I do for you this fine morning?”

Arya snickered at the eyebrow that Sansa raised to him, the eyebrow raise that she had once walked in on Sansa practising after she had seen just how devastating their mother’s use of it was.

“Ser Jaime, I have news for you that I doubt you wish to hear in front of an audience. Accompany me to the Council tent.” Sansa held out her arm with the expectation that he would take it.

Lannister must have been conditioned to some extend by his years in Kings landing because he took her arm without a word, only for an expression of confusion to cross his face as he took on what he had done. An expression that only made Arya snicker even harder.

She led him through the tents of the camp to the large one they used to try and strategize for their attack on the Boltons. Once inside she gently pushed him so that he was sat on a chair, then sat opposite him.

“Ser Jaime, Lord Reed has just informed me of a raven received at Greywater Watch from Kings Landing, not one week ago. As you know, your brother Lord Tyrion was on trial for the murder of King Joffrey.” She waited fro him to nod before continuing, “Lord Tyrion was found guilty of all charges, and, thanks to an intercession by the Lord Hand Tywin Lannister, has been exiled to Essos.”

All the breath seemed to leave Ser Jaime’s body at that as he slumped in his chair, he looked up at her with desperate eyes.

“My brother is alive? You aren’t jesting?” He asked frantically.

“Lord Tyrion is alive. And I have an extension on our deal if you should wish it Ser Jaime.” Sansa said softly, knowing that the Kingslayer would likely take her up on it.

“What more would you ask of me Queen in the North?”

“Bend the knee to me, swear your sword to my cause in front of my men, and I shall send someone to try and bring your brother safely to your side. No matter what you choose, I will not harm Lord Tyrion, but I am offering to return him from his exile for you.”

She watched the byplay of emotions on Ser Jaime’s face, the way she could almost see his thought process.

“Let me write a letter for your man to take to my brother and,” He scrubbed a hand over his face, “Promise that you won’t let Stannis burn Cersei and my father, and we will have a deal, Your Grace.”

“You have my word Ser Jaime.” Sansa stood and brushed her skirts down in an attempt to quell her nervous energy. “You shall swear your sword to my cause tonight, before my lords, for now, I shall send someone with paper and ink so that you may write to your brother.”

Ser Jaime stood and bowed low, a surprisingly sincere one without the usual flourishes he often added.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

* * *

“Your Grace.”

Sansa wanted to shut her eyes in the hope that it would make the man before her disappear, it was unfortunate that she couldn’t trust him anywhere but in her camp. Couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t undermine her rule while in the Riverlands or the Vale.

“Lord Baelish,” She forced herself to smile.

“Your Grace, I merely wished to offer my concern on an issue I think might be dear to your heart. One that perhaps would be best discussed in private.” Baelish simpered.

Sansa glanced at her uncle, she did not want to be left alone with Baelish, for while he would likely not take liberties with her title being what it was, it still didn’t stop his roving gaze.

“Any concerns you might have for me can be discussed in front of my uncle and Hand, my lord.” Sansa said, trying to inject steel into her voice.

Baelish’s shoulders slumped slightly, “Of course, Your Grace, I was simply concerned of it being a delicate matter. When we reach Winterfell and your brothers, are you not concerned that your lords will throw you aside in favour of them? There has never been an independent queen before after all.”

Sansa desperately forced her fists not to clench, she had expected this conversation, had prepared for it as much as she could.

“Do not worry, my lord, I will not let my kingdoms fall into civil war, should my brothers desire the throne then I will step aside for them quite happily.”

The glimmer of a scowl crossed Baelish’s face, he evidently did not like her answer.

“What about marraige, Your Grcae? Surely if you married then your lords are less likely to ask you to step down.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow and allowed herself to deliberately misunderstand what he was proposing.

“Marriage, my lord? We are not the Targaryens or the Lannisters, I cannot marry my brothers.”

She thought she might have heard a snort from her uncle behind her at her words and the way they caused a spark of rage to fly into Baelish’s eyes.

“Lord Baelish, might I remind you that my niece has only just been released from two betrothals to enemies of her family. Might I also remind you that any marriage she does enter into will be of her own choice and if for politics at all will not be to any lord of the Vale, North or Riverlands.” Brynden stepped in just then, inserting himself in such a way between them that he forced Baelish back a few steps. “Now please leave my niece alone else I’m forced to carry you back to your tent like I did when you were a boy who had just got drunk for the first time.”

Colour flooded into Baelish’s cheeks and he stalked out of the tent quicker than Sansa had ever seen him move before.

She relaxed as he left, releasing tension she had not realised she was carrying and Brynden gently set a hand on her arm.

“That was well done, sweetling.” He said in his gruff but approving way and Sansa relaxed further.

Hopefully that would keep Baelish off her back for a little longer.

* * *

“Your Grace? I have information that your father, may the gods watch over his soul, bade me to keep secret until he saw fit to release it, but that I now believe is the time to reveal.” Lord Reed said, looking slightly uncomfortable in the rich tent that had been designated as Sansa’s.

She was pretty sure the tent had once belonged to Renly Baratheon, as it had travelled with the Tyrells and was far more opulent than a tent was normally.

“Go on Lord Reed,” Sansa gestured fro him to sit, “What information is so important you would reveal it now?”

Lord Reed sat gingerly on the seat indicated and began his tale, “I am unsure how much your father told you of Robert’s Rebellion but I was by your father’s side nearly the entire time. At the end of the war, once Kings Landing had fallen, we rode for the Tower of Joy in search of the Lady Lyanna, as that is where we had been told she had been sent by Rhaegar.”

Sansa nodded, she had heard of how her father had fought the Knight of the Morning with Lord Reed, only to discover Lyanna’s body inside the tower.

“Lady Lyanna was still alive when we arrived, despite what we said, she was with child, a child she was labouring with as we fought on the sands outside. She died in your father’s arms, and with her dying breath made Ned promise to keep her son safe.”

She could only stare at Lord Reed, if what he said was true – and why would he lie? – then Rhaegar still had a living child.

“What are you saying, my lord?” She managed to force out.

“I am saying, Your Grace, that your half-brother is actually your cousin. Jon Snow is actually Aemon Blackfyre.”

The words did not make sense, her father lying to his best friend? Lying to his king? It was almost unthinkable.

And yet, he had lied in Kings Landing to protect her and Arya, had lied to the King and the lords then.

He had always said that family was the most important thing.

Except… if this was true then it hadn’t been to him. It meant he had lied to their mother for years. Had allowed her to believe he had dishonoured her. Had allowed her to hate Jon for no real reason.

Sansa’s head hurt.

The impact this revelation would have on any negotiations she attempted as well, just contemplating it was enough to give her a headache.

She vowed to herself though, then and there, that if Jon wanted to claim the Iron Throne, she would place him there. Until she had had a chance to discuss everything through with him though, it was perhaps best to keep this information quiet.

He deserved to hear it before any one else, in person, deserved to hear that no matter what happened he could always claim the name Stark. That no matter his birth parents he would always be their brother.

She rose to her feet, an action Lord Reed quickly followed, and took a deep breath to compose herself.

“Thank you, Lord Reed, once again you have done my family a great service. I would ask that this information remains between us until I have a chance to speak with my brother. It would be unkind for him to find out through rumour or raven.” Sansa said, even as her mind still turned over the information she had been given.

“Of course, Your Grace, no word on this matter shall pass my lips until you say the time is right. As I promised your father, now so do I promise you.” Lord Reed said, he then bowed and exited the tent, leaving Sansa to think over the way the pieces had changed once again.


	15. Jon

The tense feeling around Castle Black had got worse since the letter from Bolton. Jon had confined Rickon to the rooms they had claimed for fear that someone would respond to the threats within the letter.

It had made them both utterly miserable, to say nothing of the way Shaggydog had started to refuse to even listen to anyone that wasn’t Rickon, even Ghost was ignored when before he could at least have some impact on his brother.

Osha was his saving grace, she kept Rickon entertained as much as possible, taught him the language of the Thenns, taught him how to use a knife.

Before Jon likely wouldn’t have approved of those lessons, but now he could only be grateful for them.

He had told Osha that if Bolton’s men were sighted then she was to take Rickon along the top of the Wall to Queensgate, he wouldn’t risk his brother falling into the hands of Ramsay Snow, not after he had heard reports of his cruelty.

Jon had never thought he would be thankful that Bran was Beyond-the-Wall, but the thought of Bran falling into the Bolton bastard’s hands made him almost grateful that he was on his dangerous quest to find the Last Greenseer.

Almost.

He was still going to make Bran pay for causing him so much stress when his brother got back though.

The headache behind his eyes had not abated since the letter had arrived from Bolton, he had just come to accept that it would likely be there for a while. Likely until Rickon became an adult, but even that was unlikely.

It had been exacerbated by the flurry of ravens that had arrived, news from Sansa that she had passed the Neck and from the Northernmost Houses trying to make arrangements for the march to join Sansa’s host. Exacerbated by having to explain to Baratheon that he had dawdled in his answer so long that he would have to give it to Sansa in person now, an explanation that the self-proclaimed king had snarled at.

He was just contemplating whether he could get away with a short nap when the door to his study banged open, jolting him into full alertness.

“There you are Pretty Crow,” Tormund said cheerfully, uncaring that Jon had stood behind his desk with his hand wrapped around Longclaw, “You have cooped up in here far too long, yer starting to look pasty.”

He didn’t exactly drag Jon out of the room, but he didn’t give Jon the chance to refuse being led to the training yard.

Two wooden swords awaited them and it wasn’t long before Jon was squaring off against his friend in front of a gathered audience. For once brothers of the Watch stood alongside Free Folk who stood alongside Baratheon soldiers without arguments breaking out, they were all so interested in how the fight was going.

He put up as good a fight as he could, but Tormund was clearly the more experienced fighter of them, and he wasn’t coping with an exhausting and stress induced headache on top.

It wasn’t long before a foot swept Jon’s leg out the way and Jon found himself lying in the mud flat on his back, his sword somewhere out of reach to the side.

Tormund’s blade was pressed under his chin, his bulk heavy on Jon’s body and Jon could feel his traitorous blood pooling somewhere he really didn’t want it to be when in public.

“Yield,” Tormund growled softly and Jon had to swallow the whimper that wanted to escape.

He couldn’t focus on anything around him but the heat and weight of Tormund, the gentle touch of the wooden blade against his neck, the bright blue eyes staring down at him.

It could have been seconds or hours that passed before Jon was able to whisper out that he yielded, he was so focused on Tormund.

He couldn’t contain the slight whine when Tormund lifted off of him, the air suddenly feeling colder without Tormund’s warmth, the courtyard seeming louder as sound began to filter back in.

A strong hand reached down and lifted him up out of the mud, “Good fight, Pretty Crow.” Tormund said, slapping him on the back as soon as he was upright again.

Jon didn’t trust himself to speak in response, just nodded and escaped as soon as he could get away with, hoping no one saw the problem he currently sported.

It did make the way he had felt for the last few months make sense though, maybe he liked Tormund as more than a friend.

* * *

“King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

“Prince Crow.”

They stared at each other for a moment before the hint of a smile cracked its way onto Mance’s face.

“So how does it feel to be manning the Wall once more?” Jon asked, refraining from smirking the way he wanted to.

“Bloody cold as ever. Better than burning though.”

Most things were better than burning, and Mance knew that better than most, Baratheon and his witch had threatened to bun him before Jon managed to diffuse the situation, pointing out that burning an ally of the Queen in the North would be a tremendous mistake. The very next day Mance had joined his men at Queensgate, leaving Tormund in charge at Castle Black.

“I come with word from my sister, her armies have entered the North, it is time for your men to keep their word and march to join her.” Jon said, not wanting to waste any time.

Mance sighed, “I will gather those that were agreed on, but we will not bend the knee, that was never part of our agreement.”

“And my sister would not ask it of you.” Jon assured, feeling a twinge of guilt. For though Sansa would not ask him to bend the knee, her lords might. “We are to meet the Mormont men on the Kingsroad in one week, make sure your men are there.”

Mance nodded at that and then offered to show Jon around the Free Folk settlement, an offer that Jon accepted quite happily. He wanted to see what the Night’s Watch castle was like when filled with people who were pleased to be there, instead of there because of a punishment, he also knew that he was inevitably going to be asked to report on the state of the settlement and agreement when he met up with Sansa so it was best to be prepared.

Despite the stone and wood being as dark as ever there was a lightness to the castle, perhaps brought about by the pale clothing of the Free Folk or perhaps the atmosphere. Children ran and shrieked with joy as they played, the sound of people singing came from different directions, and the training yard was full of laughter.

It was nice, and for a moment Jon regretted leaving Rickon at Castle Black, the change in atmosphere likely would have been good for his brother.

The danger and speed of the journey, not so much.

He was greeted with a combination of suspicion and joy by the people they passed, some unable to look past the fact that he was not one of them, more just relieved that they had been able to get away from the Others without bloodshed.

He couldn’t stay long however, couldn’t leave Rickon or any of the other thousand responsibilities he had for much longer than a day. He’d return to find Castle Black on fire or Shaggydog with gore over his muzzle because of a temper tantrum.

His escort probably wouldn’t be best pleased at him leaving them outside the castle, but he doubted that the Manderly men would have been able to interact with the Free Folk without a fight of some sort breaking out and he just didn’t have time for it. He did gratefully take the roast meat he was offered as he left, hopefully a hot meal would decrease how annoyed with him they would be.

Or well, it would have done, had it not started to rain as soon as they were on the road again

* * *

Jon had forgotten that Rickon had only just started learning how to ride a pony when Winterfell had fallen, that his brother had no fucking clue how to ride a horse for even a short ride, let alone the days long trek to Long Lake.

He had to ride with Rickon perched in front of him in the saddle and desperately tried to contain his brother’s wriggling. He wished he could let Rickon walk as he wanted to, but there was no way his little legs would be able to keep up with marching men.

Jon felt a stupid amount of relief when Tormund rode his own horse up alongside Jon’s and began to entertain Rickon with songs and tales, both familiar and new. It lessened Rickon’s moving considerably and meant that there was a chance that Jon wouldn’t end up with a completely bruised stomach from Rickon’s pointy little elbows.

He found himself snickering along at the tales, including one where Tormund spoke of sleeping with a She-Bear. He highly doubted that his friend had ever slept with a bear, more likely he had slept with someone wearing bearskin.

The time passed fairly quickly then, the travelling not quite so monotonous when the air was filled with Rickon’s giggles and Tormund’s booming laugh.

But still he was filled with relief when they viewed the Bear of the Mormonts and Chains of the Umbers flying up ahead, on the banks of the river where they had said they would meet just as the sun began to lower.

It meant he could let Rickon stretch his legs and run around for a while in relative safety while he underwent the pleasantries expected of him with the commander of the Mormont forces.

They had to get there first, the horns blew to signal their arrival and as they rode in Jon was not expecting the welcome they received.

The cheers at the sight of the direwolf banner, at the sight of Ghost and Shaggydog, at the sight of Rickon; were almost deafening.

He had always known the Stark’s had the love and loyalty of the North, but to see it was something else.

They had opened a pathway to the centre of the camp, the men along it bowing their heads to Rickon as they passed, the pathway leading directly to a lord and lady that Jon recognised once more from Winterfell, although he would have struggled to remember their names had he not been in contact with them previously.

“Lord Hothor, Lady Alysane,” Jon bowed slightly, perhaps deeper than protocol demanded but only so much as to show respect, “On House Stark’s behalf, I thank you for answering the call, and offer condolences on the losses you received at the Red Wedding.”

He had practised those words beforehand, scouring his memory for the protocol lessons he had received alongside Robb and Theon, the only lessons Lady Catelyn had ever taught him, ones she hadn’t even looked too displeased about.

He ignored the wide eyes as Tormund dismounted behind him, intent on getting Rickon to greet the assembled lords properly.

Rickon did with great reluctance, full f energy now that he was down from the horse and desperately wanting to go and run and explore his new surroundings. Jon kept his hand firmly on Rickon’s shoulder to hold him still as he introduced the rest of his companions.

“Ser Wylis Manderly, the head of Crown Prince Rickon’s guard, and Tormund Giantsbane, an ambassador for the Free Folk.”

Ser Wylis greeted the others with the sort of familiarity that comes from meeting every few years for trade agreements and such and then-

“She-bear,” Tormund nodded his head, oddly respectful and it took Jon a moment for his words to sink in.

“Bear-fucker.”

His eyes widened as he looked between the two, between the daughter of House Mormont who claimed her children were fathered by nears and the man who claimed to have fucked a bear. The two people who were eyeing each other with blatant familiarity.

A hot ball of envy formed in Jon’s stomach, different to the one he had felt with Karsi. Karsi had reassured him almost immediately that she and Tormund were not romantically entangled, that they had just wanted children, Seven Hells she had reassured him before Jon had even realised he was jealous!

He wasn’t the only one who was shocked by the turn of events, although Lord Hothor seemed to be taking it with more amusement than anything else.

Jon forced himself to keep his voice steady, “We should be expecting the rest of the Free Folk host by dark, they travelled here from Queensgate with their King, Mance Rayder. If y could please ask your men to remain civil with the Free Folk, as we don’t want any hostilities before we face the Boltons.”

He turned away as soon as they had agreed, to see to Rickon and allow him to let out some energy. To not have to watch as Tormund inevitably flirted with Lady Mormont.

* * *

It would have been rude to refuse the invitation to join Lady Alysane and Lord Hothor that evening, might even have caused a diplomatic incident had they been particularly prickly. It was with both relief and disappointment that he didn’t see Tormund there, it felt lonely without the man who had been his frequent companion, and yet he couldn’t help but be pleased he wouldn’t have to witness as the man he had just realised he had feelings for courted another.

Jon startled at the lyrics he heard coming from the next fire over, he did not recognise them and yet they were somehow familiar.

“…_the lions to hide, but the pack lives on_.”

The words died down and Jon looked at those around the fire with him, only to see Lady Alysane smirking wickedly.

“If you are wondering what that song was, my lord,” She grinned, “It’s a new composition, one that has spread rapidly, I believe it is called ‘The Pack Lives’.”

Jon could only stare at her, even as the others snickered at the dumbfounded look on his face.

“What did you think no songs would be sung about your family’s victories?” Mance asked, looking weirdly comfortable surrounded by highborn lords and ladies.

Jon shrugged and had opened his mouth to answer when a familiar hand settled on his back, emitting warmth he could feel even through his layers of clothing.

“Of course, the Pretty Crow didn’t Mance,” Tormund laughed, pausing only to take a swig of his foul-smelling fermented goats’ milk, “He doesn’t even believe me when I say he’s pretty.”

Lord Hothor snorted at that, and an expression that could only be termed a leer crossed his face as he looked at Jon. Jon was very suddenly reminded of the story surrounding Hothor ‘Whoresbane’ Umber, the story of how he had once bit off a male whore’s nose while staying in Oldtown.

Tormund kept his hand on Jon’s back as he sat next to him, and he could see from the corner of his eye how Lady Alayne’s smirk deepened. Nothing was said though and Jon allowed himself to relax, knowing that Rickon was safe in bed, and enjoyed the warmth leeching into his side.

They would set off again in the morning, head towards Long Lake and the meeting point for the two armies, he would have to deal with an impatient Rickon once more.

But for now he could just enjoy the warmth and company.


	16. Sansa

The world seemed to stop in place as Sansa saw the banners of the camp up ahead; saw the bears, chains, mermen, and fists of her bannermen and the direwolves of her own House; saw the figures waiting on the edge of the camp. She ignored all dignity and protocol and sped up her horse until she was galloping across the grass to meet them, her hair flying in the wind like a stream of fire. Arya as close behind her as her horse would allow.

She barely slowed her horse long enough to dismount and fling herself at two of the people she had missed most in the world, Arya copying her every movement.

The four of them fell into a pile of limbs and tears and smiles, until they resembled wolf pups curled together.

“Rickon, Jon,” She breathed, repeating their names over and over, as they did the same to her and Arya. For a few minutes all they did was exist, content to finally have part of their pack reunited.

But they could not ignore their duties for long, the thunder of hoofbeats and the sound of metal dragged them apart and back to their roles.

But whereas Sansa stood, her siblings remained kneeling and she soon found herself gazing over a field of men sinking to their knees before her. Their faces turned to her in an uncomfortable kind of awe.

It sent shivers down her spine, the sight of an army so large before her, an army that was hers, one that would do her bidding and protect her interests. Had she not seen what a selfish lust for power could bring, she was sure her head would have been turned.

But she had seen those consequences, and they were something she would wish on no one.

She placed a hand on the shoulders of her siblings, urging them to rise in turn, Rickon first as her heir, then Arya, then Jon, aware at all times that she must be decorous and graceful and steel. She had been granted her moment of weakness and now she must wait until in the privacy of her own tent.

As soon as Jon had risen, so too did the rest of the men. They stepped to the side, forming a pathway of sorts, through their ranks so she could reach the command tent.

Sansa found she could not restrain herself and so picked up Rickon to place on her hip, uncaring of his weight or the slight break in protocol.

A soft chant began as she walked through the path, followed by her brother and sister, her uncle, her advisors.

Swords were suddenly raised in the air and the army shouted together, chanting words she had heard before, words as old and as meaningful as the design of the crown on her brow. Words that never failed to send a shiver down her spine.

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

* * *

“Well, yer Grace, yer almost as pretty as yer brother.” The man her brother introduced as Tormund said in lieu of greeting her properly.

Sansa had to work to stifle a laugh, at the words and the resigned look on Jon’s face. He had often been called ‘pretty’ when they were growing up, often by Theon in a mocking tone, but never had he looked at the one calling him that with such a fond gaze.

Well, Sansa could do something about that.

But first she needed to deal with the Free Folk who had settled on her land, had to meet with their leaders so they knew who she was. Had to check that their settlements were going well and that there was little agitation between them and her bannermen.

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said, “For your words and for the care you have taken of both my brothers.”

Tormund laughed, “I am no ‘ser’, yer grace. Just Tormund. And it wasn’t a chore to look after them, well not to look after the little one anyway. Yer pretty brother was a bit more difficult to keep alive.”

The laugh was becoming even more difficult to stifle as the look on Jon’s face gained a hint of insult at Tormund’s words.

“Well I thank you anyway, Tormund. Would it trouble you to introduce me to your King? I should like to discuss how your people are settling in.”

He held out his arm, and Sansa idly wondered whether Jon had taught him to do that for it looked newly learnt and not at all like the smooth gestures from the Red keep. She took it and allowed herself to be escorted into the area of the camp that the Free Folk had claimed.

It was incredibly different from the rest of the camp, the tents made of skins instead of cloth, there were no banners hung, and men and woman alike dressed in the same fur trousers and coats.

But in others ways it was so similar, singing came from around communal fires, the clattering sound of blade on blade from the makeshift training grounds rang out, and there was the same edge of anticipation in the air.

She was shown to a tent, only distinguishable from the others by it being slightly larger, the sounds of a lute filtered out through the flaps and it made Sansa curious as to what the King-Beyond-the-Wall was like.

“Mance,” Tormund called as he released Sansa’s arm so he could push open the tent flaps, “I’ve brought the Queen of the North to see you.”

The lute stopped playing and Tormund gestured for Sansa to enter.

A single man stood in the centre of the tent, a black cloak slashed with red around his shoulders and a lute in his hands. He inclined his head when he saw Sansa, and she did the same in return.

“You’ve changed much since I last saw you Sansa Stark.” The man that could only be Mance Rayder said softly.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I find I do not recognise you, the way you see to recognise me.” Sansa replied, hoping he wasn’t insulted by her words.

To her relief he simply chuckled, “I would expect not, your attention was largely held by the boy currently sat on the Iron Throne, and as for the first time I saw you, well, I think your sister was chasing you into a snowball ambush your brothers had prepared for Greyjoy. It was unlikely in either occasion you would pay much attention to a singer or a man travelling to the Wall.”

Sansa had to nod her head in agreement, it was not surprising that she wouldn’t remember either of those people. She swiftly moved he conversation onwards, not wanting to insult her ally.

“Have your people started to settle well?”

Rayder smiled at her, “That they have, the settlements at Queensgate and Rimegate are going well, although there are a selection who would prefer to travel South to Wintertown once you have been returned to your seat.”

That was unexpected but not unwelcome.

“As long as they obey my laws while in Wintertown then they will be welcomed with open arms. I can assure you now that none of your men will ever be asked to do anything but defend the North, I will not ask them to travel below the Neck.”

“I thank you for that declaration, my lady, it will likely soothe some of the more brash tempers. Some were afraid we would merely be made your attack dogs.”

Sansa smiled, “I wouldn’t dream of it. I think my brother would have my head if such a thought ever passed through it.” She ignored Tormund’s guffaws at her words, “Now, would you please enlighten me as to the laws and customs of the people you serve, if only so I do not cause any undue offense.”

She listened intently as Mance Rayder and Tormund explained to her the different tribes and people of the Free Folk. After all, one did not inspire love or loyalty through being deliberately ignorant of customs.

* * *

It was hours until she and her siblings were alone again, packed into the tent that had been shared by Jon and Rickon but that they had all moved into. Sansa had dismissed the offer to have one of her own set up, at least for that night.

They curled up together on the furs, sharing honeyed fruits and laughter, reminiscing on happier times and smiling at the antics of the direwolves as they reunited. Rickon soon fell into a peaceful slumber, curled in the middle of them all, one hand curled in Sansa’s hair, the other in Arya’s tunic.

Sansa was loath to ruin the moment but Jon deserved to know the truth, deserved to not have the information sprung on him unexpectedly by someone who was not family.

“Jon, there, there is something you need to know.” Sansa said quietly, running her hand through Rickon’s curls in an attempt to dispel her nervous energy.

“Sansa, you don’t need to tell me now, whatever it is can wait.” Jon said, putting on the tone of voice he and Robb had often used when Sansa or Arya or Bran had been distressed.

“No, you need to know this, and you deserve to find out from family. I know who your mother is.”

Had Arya not been curled up on his lap Sansa was sure Jon would have shot to his feet in shock. As it was his face paled and his eyes widened.

“What?” He did not shout, likely in fear of waking Rickon, but she could hear he wanted to.

“Your biological parents were Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Father passed you off as his son to keep you safe, to prevent you being murdered like Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys.”

Jon seemed to go through all the stages of grief in a second, and it was with acceptance in his voice that he next spoke.

“I’m your cousin then, not your brother.”

Both Sansa and Arya hit him then, hit him hard.

“You idiot.” Arya said with her particular brand of tact, “You’ve always been our brother and you always will. This changes nothing except for the fact that you might be a little fireproof.”

“We are not testing that Arya!” Sansa said as soon as she saw her sister’s eyes light up, “But as Arya said Jon, you are our brother, our brooding, grumpy, and according to the Free Folk, pretty brother.”

He smiled at them and neither mentioned the slight dampness of his eyes, he wouldn’t appreciate being called out on having emotions by his little sisters. They settled back down again, savouring the closeness and trying not to laugh over Rickon and Shaggydog’s snores harmonising.

“You know Jon, you technically have a slight claim to the Iron Throne. The Targaryen loyalists would be happy to see you there, and I could use my armies to place you there.” Sansa said conversationally, as she plucked at a loose thread in her skirt.

Jon paled so fast she was honestly surprised he didn’t faint.

“Fuck no.” He whispered, “You even think of giving me that chair and I’ll run away to live beyond the Wall.”

Arya started laughing at the sheer horror in his voice, and Sansa joined her. It was the answer she had expected, although she hadn’t thought he would phrase it quite so crudely.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that unless you asked me to,” Sansa patted his arm, “I know you would hate it. And the heat would cause damage to your precious curls.”

Jon’s hand shot up to his hair when she mentioned it, making Arya laugh even harder. The pride he had taken in his hair was something that every sibling had teased him about at some point or another, most often when their mother had actually looked at him long enough to pronounce he needed a haircut.

Jon pouted at them for a moment, before his face cracked into a huge grin and he joined in with their laughter. Sansa was so full of joy at having her family around her that she felt almost drunk on it, they only laughed harder when Rickon opened his eyes and angrily hit his fist into Arya’s chest at being woken up.

* * *

“Lord Stannis Baratheon, I hear you have caused my brother quite some trouble.” Sansa was as forthright as she could be, staring the would-be king directly in the eye.

“Sansa Stark. It seems that treason runs in your blood.” The man sneered down his nose at her, his tone causing her to straighten her spine even further.

“Say what you will, but my people want me to rule them. You are stranded here with half your army gone; it would behove you to listen to my terms for an alliance.”

Baratheon’s eye twitched but he gestured for her to continue speaking.

“My terms are this: the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale will remain under my rule; Margaery Tyrell will be spared; Tommen Waters will be spared and sent to foster at Winterfell until the time comes for him to take lordship of Casterly Rock; Myrcella Waters’ betrothal will remain; executions will not be by burning but by a more humane method; and you will provide aid in the war against the Others. In exchange I will help you claim the Iron Throne once my kingdom is secure, and should a pretender rise up against it or the Targaryen make her move from Essos.” Sansa was clear and calm, pouring every ounce of the steel she had learned since leaving home into her voice.

Stannis Baratheon blinked at her and then suddenly she could see the blood shared with his brother. Not the fat king she had met but the warrior from her father’s stories.

His eyes burned with fury and something she was hesitant to name fanaticism, although there was no other word that would do it justice.

“And why should I listen to you with your demands she-wolf? I could kill you here and now and claim your armies for my own!” He all but spat at her.

“Should you kill me here then you would not leave the North alive. This I can promise you, as should you manage to escape my army then my direwolves would hunt you down and tear out your throat. Now, all reports have said you are a practical man, an intelligent man, I am willing to help you claim five kingdoms for your own, because my father supported you. You would be a fool not to take my offer.” Sansa forced her voice to stay even, her spine to remain straight, she had survived Kings Landing nearly all by herself, she could deal with one man in the middle of her own army. “Now, my lord, I would like an answer, else I can take this offer elsewhere.”

He seemed to deflate before her eyes, “You are very much your father’s daughter. Fine, we have a deal.”

His words were a relief, from what Jon had said she hadn’t expected him to capitulate so easily. She wondered how much of it was him seeing her forces in truth and how much was the lack of the Red Priestess whispering in his ear as he spoke with her.

It could have been both. It could have been neither.

“I will have my council draw up a contract to seal the alliance, my lord, your own may confer with them on the minutiae, but the terms I set previously are as firm as stone.” Sansa inclined her head the barest amount possible and left the dour man to inform his council of their new alliance.

She herself had to inform her own council, as well as Jon who would undoubtedly be pleased that there was no way Sansa could now go through with her threat to place him on the Iron Throne.

* * *

“So, Jon, is there something you aren’t telling me?” She used her most wheedling voice, the one that she used to use to get Robb and Jon and Theon to play with her, “Something to do with big, strong and ginger?”

Jon flushed so red that Sansa was surprised that he didn’t topple from the lack of blood elsewhere, and his eyes shifted to the side rapidly.

Well, that response certainly answered her question.

“You know Jon, one of the best things about being Queen is that if I don’t like a law, I can change it.” She said in a conversational tone, enjoying the widening of his eyes.

“Sansa, I-”

“Jon.” Sansa smiled, “I wouldn’t just be doing it for you, why do you think my uncle never married? It would be cruel to deny you happiness just because of who you love. When Winterfell is ours again it will be one of my first decrees, after all what better way to celebrate than with a wedding?”

She was pleased to see she had shocked him into speechlessness, it wasn’t often she managed to do that.

“Besides, the Northern lords will accept the Free Folk better if there is a marriage between one of their leaders and a Stark.”

She could predict the words that were going to come out of Jon’s mouth and so pre-emptively hit him.

“Ow, what was that for?” He whined and Sansa rolled her eyes.

“You were going to say you aren’t a Stark. Which is just stupid Jon. And if you say that at all I will tell Arya who will follow you around complaining in that special way she has.”

It was a legitimate threat. When she wanted to Arya could be the most irritating person in the whole of Westeros.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” The whining tone had not left Jon’s voice, “He doesn’t like me that way. He prefers Alysane Mormont.”

Sansa felt like slapping her brother again, but she settled for rolling her eyes instead.

“You’re an idiot Jon. Tormund very obviously likes you. He stares at you whenever you’re anywhere near him. Even Rickon has noticed it.”

She watched his face hoping her words had gotten through his skull but there was no change to his expression, he still looked miserable and a little bit jealous.

Sansa shook her head and left him to his sulking, maybe her uncle would be willing to have a talk with him if she asked nicely.


	17. Jon

Jon couldn’t believe how much his sisters had grown.

Couldn’t believe how much taller Sansa had gotten. Couldn’t believe how much fiercer Arya had become.

Couldn’t believe how haunted their eyes were.

He was an older brother but was never supposed to be the older brother. It had always been Robb who they had looked to the way they now looked at him, and it was jarring to say the least.

Despite never really being as close to Sansa as he had to the others when they were in Winterfell, she had still run to him and hugged him with all her strength. Had still called him a Stark and her brother when she revealed the truth about his parents.

No, not his parents. Father was his parent, father had raised him, he was more Ned Stark’s son than Rhaegar Targaryen’s. he wanted no claim on the legacy of a man who plunged Westeros into civil war because he couldn’t control his lust for a girl barely older than Sansa was now.

His feelings for his mother were far more conflicted, all his life he had wanted to know who she was and now that he knew he felt… empty? It did not fill him with a sudden knowledge of who he was, or of his place in the world. It did not change much at all.

His siblings had told him that none of them would speak of it unless he wished it, and he believed them. He had been approached a few times by Lord Reed who had told him stories of his mother, ones that Jon had never heard before, and while nice they did not spark any sort of love for her, other than the distant sort he had already felt when she was his aunt.

For all he felt a little confusion over his feelings regarding he revelation about his birth parents, there was one thing he knew for certain. No matter what anyone said he never wanted to sit on the Iron Throne.

Ever.

He was sure he would hate it, hate the pompous and conniving and slimy lords that surrounded it. He had never had a desire to rule the North so why would he the pit of vipers that was the rest of Westeros?

You would have to be mad to want that throne.

* * *

“My niece told me I should have a little talk with you.”

Jon shot up at the dry voice coming from the entrance to the tent.

“Was it Arya, ser? You don’t have to talk with me no matter what she threatened you with, I can pretend we had a talk if you really don’t want to.” Jon said nervously.

Ser Brynden smirked, a smirk that Jon recognised from seeing it on both Robb and Arya’s faces previously.

“Sansa, actually. And its no trouble. my niece may have disliked you, but your brother only had good things to say. As did your sisters actually.”

Jon blinked at that, dumbfounded, he had never once expected someone bearing the name Tully to show him anything other than vitriol.

“Thank you, ser. What did Sansa ask you to talk to me about?”

Ser Brynden chuckled and sat down on a chair carved with roses, he gestured for Jon to do the same and so he sat back down.

“Call me Brynden, lad, else this will likely feel even more awkward. Sansa asked me to speak to you because she has noticed that you maybe like that Wildling friend of yours as more than a friend.” His voice was warm and non-judgemental and Jon could see why his sisters liked their great-uncle so much. “Now if you are going to be doing anything with a man you can’t just stick it in there, have you done anything with a woman? Good. That’ll make this easier to explain.”

He then proceeded to sit there and explain the ins and outs of sleeping with a man in more detail than Jon had ever particularly thought about, or even wanted to know before meeting Tormund.

When he finished Jon just sat there, questioning everything that had led him to that moment. Everything that had led up to him being told the best way to sleep with another man by his stepmother’s uncle.

“If you find yourself with any questions lad, just ask come and ask me or Oberyn. Neither of us will mind, although I am less likely to proposition you than he is.” Brynden patted him on the shoulder and left the ten.

Jon himself did not move until Ghost came and nudged him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know why the thoughts swirled through his head with such ferocity, he knew that Tormund didn’t like him in that way, the way he behaved around Lady Alysane was proof enough of that.

* * *

“There’s where you’ve disappeared to Pretty Crow.” Tormund found Jon with the five direwolves on the edges of the encampment.

He had volunteered to take them out of the camp to allow them t hunt and play in all the space they needed. He had heard reports of a pack of wolves following Nymeria, but when he had asked Arya about it, she had said that they had been left below the Neck.

It was bittersweet to see the direwolves playing, to see Grey-Wind without Robb, to see the pack without Summer.

It was nearly as bittersweet to be approached by Tormund, to know that Tormund had left his lady’s side to find him.

He forced a smile onto his face to greet Tormund, he would be happy for his friend and not well in his unhappiness around him.

“Aye, Nymeria and Shaggydog were getting a little too wild so I volunteered to bring them out here.” Jon gestured at the wolves.

He winced as Shaggydog jumped onto Grey-Wind’s back, and then again as the two wolves rolled around, playfully snapping at each other.

Tormund just let out a laugh at the sight of it, for all his eyes were full of awe whenever he saw one of them with their wolf.

“That was good of you.” Tormund sat down, so he was perched next to Jon on the log.

Jon desperately tried to ignore the warmth he felt emanating from Tormund and the way their thighs were just touching.

Tormund did not make that an easy task as he shifted closer to Jon than was strictly necessary as his voice turned more serious.

“I have a question for you, Pretty Crow, what are the wedding customs like for your people?”

Jon felt like his heart would crack in two, but he tried not to let anything show on his face.

“Well, it depends on the Faith they follow. If it’s the Seven then it takes place in a Sept, with a long ceremony conducted by a Septon, the bride is escorted to her groom waiting below the statue of the Father, he places his cloak on her shoulders and the ceremony is sealed with a kiss, and the marriage with a bedding.” Jon explained slowly, despite knowing that it likely wasn’t the ceremony Tormund was interested in, not if he wanted to wed Alysane Mormont.

Tormund shifted and his voice lowered, “And before the Old Gods? How does that work?”

Jon took a deep breath and tried to control the emotion he displayed.

“The ceremony normally happens at dusk; the groom waits below the Heart Tree and the bride is escorted to him by a family member. They exchange cloaks and a kiss, and then kneel to ask the old Gods for a blessing. One that is done the groom carries the bride to the feast.”

He determinedly did not think of Tormund carrying anyone anywhere, did not think of what it would be like to be held in those strong arms, or what it would be like to knee before the Heart Tree at Winterfell with Tormund by his side.

Tormund was quiet for a moment, and when Jon chanced a glance at his face, he could see he was deep in thought.

“And what would the protocol be for asking someone to be wed? I assume you don’t just steal them as the Free Folk do.” Tormund finally asked, and Jon’s stomach clenched at the intensity in his voice.

“No,” He forced a laugh, “Normally you would ask the bride and her guardian, if the match is to someone highborn sometimes the permission of the liege lord or king is also needed.”

Jon turned his attention back to the direwolves, not wanting to witness as Tormund planned his proposal. He was just debating on whether he would need to interfere as Ghost, Grey-Wind, Nymeria, and Lady were about to gang up on Shaggydog when a hot hand landed on his shoulder.

“Thanks for the advice, Pretty Crow, and a word of my own? Don’t interfere with their play, their claws are a lot bigger than yours.”

The heat disappeared and Jon was left alone, with just the direwolves for company.

* * *

He couldn’t quite believe his eyes at the scene before him, when Sansa had gone off to see to whatever duty she was trying to deal at that moment, and with the knowledge that Rickon was being cared for by Ser Brynden, he thought he would take the opportunity to find Arya. He knew she would be in the training grounds, but what he hadn’t expected was how good she was with the blade, or the people who were training her.

He had been told that the Kingslayer had bent the knee to Sansa, but to see him helping train Arya of all people? And japing and laughing with the woman demonstrating a movement for Arya, it was strange enough that he wondered for a moment if everything that had happened since he crossed the Wall was just a fever induced dream.

The grin on Arya’s face though, the same grin she had shown since she was a babe, that was no fever dream. Nor was the joy that sparked in his chest at seeing his baby sister so happy and carefree.

She hadn’t noticed him approach, although he assumed the Lady Brienne had from the slight smirk on her face. He grabbed a training sword and moved slowly behind her, only to bring his sword against her own with a loud clang when she turned.

Arya’s eyes widened in shock, and her grin gained a fierce edge.

She swung at him with a flurry of attacks, swift and light and completely different from any style he had ever seen before.

Jon merely gritted his teeth into a grin and fought back, savouring the chance to spar with a sibling once again.

While Arya was good, he was better, his strength and reach was to his advantage, as was his years of experience.

He forced the sword out of her hand with a strong blow and held his own sword so it was flush against her neck, enough so that he could feel her heavy breaths down the length of the blade.

“Yield.”

Arya looked up at him with laughter in her eyes and he suddenly found something poking into his side.

“You yield.”

Jon glanced down, his sister was holding a dagger to his side, the point aimed where he knew it would slip between ribs to enter his lungs.

It was impressive.

The two held their standoff for a moment more, before disengaging without a word.

Applause can from one side, and when Jon turned he could see Lannister clapping his hand against his stump, and Lady Brienne nodding approvingly.

“Very good Arya, you’ve remembered what we said about making your opponent underestimate you.” She said.

Arya’s grin brightened at the praise, soaking it up and basking in it.

Jon let her be to go through the cool down exercises that Lady Brienne dictated, while he went to return the training sword.

“That was well fought boy,” A cocky drawl sounded over his shoulder and Jon turned his head slightly to see the golden hair and arrogant features of Jaime Lannister.

An idle part of Jon’s mind ruminated that if Ser Jaime had been among the Free Folk with him, Jon likely wouldn’t have been labelled the pretty one. Not when compared to the golden curls and bright green eyes of the Kingslayer.

Even if his curls weren’t quite so golden anymore.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.” He forced the words out, no matter how much he disliked someone his father had raised him to be polite.

Ser Jaime tilted his head and squinted at Jon, “You look familiar, some of your features, they aren’t Stark’s and yet they’re familiar.”

Jon was reminded suddenly and uncomfortably that Ser Jaime had once served Rhaegar Targaryen, had known him quite well. Terror filled him at the thought that Ser Jaime might figure out why he was familiar, he did not want to be known as a Blackfyre or Targaryen. He was a Stark, raised by his father and legitimised by his sister.

“Maybe you met my mother once, Ser Jaime.” He suggested, hoping to move past the conversation.

“Perhaps.” The Kingslayer looked thoughtful, but he did not press any further. “if you should like to train at any time, I would not be opposed.”

Jon could only mumble his thanks as he rushed to grab Arya. He wanted the chance to catch up with his sister properly and doubted he would have another chance before they made their move on Winterfell.

He slung an arm over her shoulders, and led her away from the training grounds to the tent they all still shared. For once she made no attempt to escape from his hold, instead leaning into it slightly. That told him that she had missed him more than any words could.

“I was there, you know.” Arya said in a small voice, burrowing into his side.

“Where?”

“I was at the Twins, when the massacre started. I saw them parade Robb’s body around. Had I been any quicker mine likely would have joined his.”

Jon felt ill, it had been difficult enough to hear about what had happened, but to have actually seen it?

He wrapped Arya closer to him, as if he could shield her from the horrors of the world with his arms.

“I vowed to kill the Freys for what they did but when I put my blade through their necks, I didn’t feel any better.” Her voice was so small and broken that Jon felt his heart break anew.

“Arya,” Jon felt helpless and it was a struggle not to let that be reflected in his voice, “You couldn’t have done anything more, you should never have had to see that.”

She looked up at him with big wet eyes and then burrowed her face into his chest. All he could do was hold her tight and rock her gently, running a soothing hand down her back.

He hated the feeling of helplessness that overtook him, the Lannisters and Boltons would pay for what they did to his sweet sister.

* * *

“You!”

The whole camp stopped and stared as Maege Mormont approached Tormund with anger in her eyes and an embarrassed daughter at her heels.

Tormund, in his characteristic way didn’t do anything other than beam at her.

“Lady-Bear!”

He didn’t flinch even as a dagger was pulled on him and Jon was amazed, Lady Mormont was terrifying when she wanted to be. and with the way she was glaring at Tormund she definitely wanted to be.

“I’ve finally caught you! Now tell me, Giantsbane, do you ever plan on making an honest woman out of my daughter?”

Jon could see Lady Alysane flush in such embarrassment that the knot of jealousy in his gut did not grow, so great was the sympathy he felt for her.

“Lady Bear, I hold no intentions of marrying your daughter, for as beautiful as she is, my heart does not hold the love for her that a marriage should, and her heart does not for me.”

It seemed that Lady Alysane finally found her voice at Tormund’s words, “It is true mother, I have no desire to marry Tormund. We would clash far too much for a marriage to be a happy one.”

Jon could hardly believe his ears, he had managed to convince himself that Tormund would ask for Lady Alysane’s hand at some point. But it sounded like he had never had any intentions of such a thing, why then had he asked Jon what marriage customs were like in the North?


	18. Brynden

There were moments that Brynden wished that Edmure had accompanied them to the North, it would be nice on occasion to not be the only adult that his nieces and nephew (and step-nephew) had to visit for advice and to complain to. Arya often showed up to ask him for stories or advice on her training, things he was quite happy to give her. Sometimes however-

“My brother is so stupid!” She groaned, flinging her hands up in the air as she entered his tent uninvited.

“Which one?”

He knew which one she was probably talking about, but did not want to make assumptions. Rickon could theoretically have done something to deserve Arya’s ire.

“Jon. He’s so stupid. He’s convinced that his friend likes Lady Alysane when any idiot could see that he likes Jon. And now Jon is brooding because he thinks he’s ‘unlovable’ or some bullcrap like that.”

“Language.” He chided mildly, slightly in awe of his own hypocrisy at telling someone off for using bad language.

He pretended he didn’t see the hand gesture she aimed his way, if there was one thing being a soldier had taught him it was when to pick his battles.

“Have you told Jon that he is being stupid?”

Arya pouted, “I tried by he didn’t believe me. Or Sansa. He won’t believe anyone but Tormund, and that idiot doesn’t see what the problem is.”

Brynden felt like asking the Gods for strength, when had he become a relationship councillor? Whether it was before or after his brother had children, he couldn’t remember.

“Have you tried speaking to the Mormonts? Alysane can probably help you with this better than I can. And Maege has always been more of a romantic than she might seem, she’d would probably help you quite happily.”

Arya’s eyes lit up and she darted over to press a dry kiss to his cheek in thanks. She then sprinted out of the tent, making the entrance flaps fly open behind her.

He was looking forward to seeing whatever the three of them would come up with. Hopefully it would work else he would have Arya back in his tent trying to come up with some other scheme to make her brother admit his feelings.

At least her schemes promised to be entertaining.

* * *

For all Sansa had the personality of her father, every so often a glimpse of her grandmother would show through. Her mind for politics was as sharp as Minisa Tully’s had been, and Brynden found himself teaching her lessons and concepts that his brother’s wife had taught him. Lessons that she eagerly took in and understood with a swiftness that often astounded him.

He had found that her time in Kings Landing had schooled her on a number of ideas and basic concepts, and that she had had many lessons in what not to do. It was a groundwork he was happy to build up on, especially knowing that she would need those skills to rule effectively and that he would not be around forever to advise her.

“When you sit in Winterfell you will have to decide what to do about those Houses that did not answer your call, and what to do about the Dreadfort and the Twins, who you will gift those fortresses to.” He said.

Sansa gained a thoughtful expression, she knew the importance of rewarding loyal families, and yet not showing favouritism.

“While I would like to be able to gift the Twins to family, I am unable to because it would show favouritism and hostility within the Vale and Riverlands.” She said slowly, and Brynden nodded to her, “But the Dreadfort I could conceivably gift to one of my siblings, as the North would not take it as an insult.”

He was impressed she had grasped that, had grasped that the Northern Lords would likely always be more loyal than the others for as long as she kept the name Stark. That they would likely see it as justice for her family if the Bolton’s castle was gifted to a Stark.

The Riverlords had more fragile egos and more in fighting, she couldn’t show favouritism for one family above another, and yet couldn’t give it to a family from the North or the Vale.

He had his own opinion on who she should give the castle to but waited to see what Sansa would come up with, waited to see if her idea would be the same.

“I should also reward the Tyrells and Martells for their role in everything,” Sansa mused and Brynden could almost see the wheels turning in her head. “The Tyrell’s would likely be appeased by a favourable trade agreement and an offer of marriage once everything is over. The Dornish though… would it be a terribly bad idea to make a new House for the Twins and gift it to Lady Tyene and her sisters?”

Brynden smiled, it had been an idea he had been toying with as well and to see her come to that conclusion on her own was a reassuring sign that his lessons were working.

“Explain your reasoning behind that, dear one.” He prompted gently.

“The Martell’s are prideful; they likely would take it as an insult to risk so much and be offered little in recompense. They also have little we could trade for; they have no need for the wood or furs of the North, the stone of the Vale, or the food of the Riverlands. We therefore cannot thank them with a deal as we do the Reach. Prince Doran has a single daughter, but she is too old for a betrothal to any of my brothers, and his sons are already betrothed. Prince Oberyn has also famously refused any betrothals for his daughters, let alone the fact that the lords would revolt if I married my brothers to a bastard.” Sansa paused and looked up at Brynden with approval seeking eyes. “Is all that right?”

He placed a hand on her arm reassuringly, “It’s very well-reasoned, sweetling, you forget as well that by creating a new House in the Riverlands you will not be favouring any House above another, especially when all will have a chance to marry in. You will still offend some, but less than you might otherwise.”

She beamed at him and he was forcibly reminded of her age, she looked so young when she smiled like that. His niece was still a child and they had thrust her into a stressful position full of danger. It was horrifying, and yet they really had no other choice.

He glanced at the position of the sun outside, it was getting late in the afternoon and there was no official business to be decided until the War Council after the evening meal. They could afford for her to have a few hours off, a few hours to be with her siblings and direwolves without having to worry about the state of her kingdom.

“I think we are finished for the day, dear one,” He said gently, “We can continue with these discussions tomorrow. For now, why don’t you go find your brothers and sister? You might as well take advantage of having some free time before you have to deal with all the minutiae of running a kingdom at peace.”

Sansa hugged him and then ran out of the tent, smiling wildly and calling her thanks. Without her crown and stately walk she could be almost any other girl of three-and-ten.

She and her siblings had already been forced to grow up far too quickly with the deaths of their parents, he would try to give them as many moments of childhood as he could.

“No!”

The plate of vegetables nearly crashed to the floor and Brynden sighed heavily through his nose. While the stubbornness Cat had passed onto her children was admirable at times, when it came to trying to convince her youngest to eat food other than meat and cake it was merely infuriating.

“You don’t have a choice. Either you eat the carrots or you don’t get any dessert.” Brynden said, trying hard not to let his irritation show in his voice. Rickon was an expert at picking up on weakness when it came to eating vegetables and would likely exploit it for all it was worth.

His nephew stuck out his bottom lip and screwed up his eyes like he was going to cry, but Brynden was unmoved.

He had dealt with Catelyn’s obstinacy, Lysa’s tantrums, and Edmure’s poor decision-making abilities. He would not be defeated by a toddler pouting.

“I don’t like carrots though! Jon never makes me eat them.” Rickon whined.

Brynden levelled him with the glare normally reserved for particularly stubborn lords.

“Jon isn’t here. I am. And I say you need to eat your carrots. Otherwise you won’t grow to be big and strong like your brothers.”

Rickon glared at him long enough that Brynden feared he might try to throw the food to the floor once more but he did eventually give in.

With every bite he shot daggers from his eyes, vicious enough that Brynden was sure that if his nephew could have actually stabbed him then he would have.

It was weirdly endearing.

Rickon finally threw down his spoon and declared that he was done. Much to Brynden’s surprise he actually was. He had half expected his nephew to declare he was when half the food was hidden under the spoon, that had always been Lysa’s trick.

“Very good!” He said, ruffling Rickon’s curls. “Was that so difficult now?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the pout and the fierce declaration.

“You can have dessert now if you want, little wolf, Lady Osha said they were your favourite.”

He uncovered a plate containing a fire cooked apple, glazed in honey, and smiled at the way Rickon’s eyes lit up in delight.

He handed the plate over and Rickon dug into the fruit in delight as soon as it was in his possession with a fervour more similar to a starving wolf than a small child.

Brynden watched his nephew and wondered idly when he became a parental figure, something he hadn’t pictured since realising his lack of attraction to the fairer sex.

* * *

“We will offer the castle the chance to surrender.” Sansa announced and Brynden did have to admire her eternal optimism.

“Pardon, Your Grace, but that will be a waste of time. And it will announce our presence to them, it’s a foolhardy idea.” Lord Glover protested.

Brynden had to supress his smirk as Sansa’s spine stiffened and her gaze turned icy, as Arya produced a knife from somewhere and started twirling it, as Jon’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, as the direwolves started to growl.

“To give our enemies the option of mercy is never foolhardy, my lord.” Sansa said, her voice as cold as a glacier.

“Besides, the Boltons have known we were coming for them since the siege at Riverrun was lifted.” Jon backed up his sister with a growl that would rival a wolf’s.

Arya did not say anything, just shot him a haughty glare. Brynden was absurdly glad that Rickon was not present, he was sure his nephew would have bitten Lord Glover for such words.

As it was the man paled drastically, and he all but took a step back. Pride sparked in Brynden’s chest at the way his nieces and nephew (because fuck it the boy might as well be, even if they shared no blood, he was the brother of Brynden’s nieces and nephews and the reason they were all there anyway) all managed to be intimidating in their own way.

He ran his gaze around the table and saw that Oberyn and his daughter were both glaring at Glover as well, as was Maege Mormont. Umber was laughing at him with his eyes, as was Manderly, and the Riverlords and Lords of the Vale looked slightly horrified by the suggestion of violence.

All except Baelish who was gazing at Sansa with a gaze that made Brynden wary. He would need to warn Sansa and her shield to be on their guard around him, it was obvious Littlefinger was planning something.

“A siege is unlikely to work, and we do not wish to damage the castle more than necessary.” Oberyn pointed out, his jovial features unusually solemn.

“The tunnels.”

Everyone turned to look at Arya, who flushed a little at the attention but stood firm.

“There are tunnels leading from the crypts into the Wolf’s Wood, only known to the Starks. They were built by Bran the Builder as an escape for the family if they were ever needed, its how Bran and Rickon managed to escape.” She continued; her chin held high.

“I could lead a group of men through the tunnels?” Jon offered, “They won’t be guarded and we’ll be able to take them by surprise.”

Brynden looked at the two of them, it was a sound idea. One that might save a lot of bloodshed that would happen in an open battle or lives lost to the cold if they tried a siege.

“Aye, that could work,” He said, gesturing to the map, “If you take men you trust won’t turn on you, a hundred or so perhaps, you could take the castle quickly. Do you know the way to the Lords Chambers from the tunnels?”

Jon nodded, “I could probably make my way there blindfolded.”

“Good. Make your way there and capture Bolton, his wife, and the bastard. With them in your custody you shouldn’t have much trouble forcing a surrender. Have a man fly a Tully and Stark banner from the roof before opening the gates, so we know we aren’t entering into an ambush.”

“What are we going to do then?” Umber sounded put out at there not being a battle.

Brynden resisted the urge to punch the man, he may be brash and annoying but he was also very loyal to his niece and they couldn’t afford to alienate him.

“We will remain camped outside the walls, ensuring that Bolton does not think we are up to anything. If we can keep his attention on us then the infiltration is more likely to be successful.”

He waited until everyone had nodded in agreement with his words before he stepped back to allow his niece to speak again.

“Thank you, Jon let us know who you’ve chosen for your mission by tomorrow morning please. And you are taking the wolves with you, no you do not have a say in the matter. Lord Umber, Lady Mormont, Uncle, Jon, I would like you to escort me to the parlay, I will give my terms in person. Should the terms not be accepted then we will move into place for a siege immediately and Jon’s group will attack at midnight.” She took a deep breath and looked each member of the council in the eye, “If the gods are with us, we will be in Winterfell the day after tomorrow.”

The Northern Lords let out loud cheers and muted war cries and Brynden took a moment to be impressed by their enthusiasm, the Northern lords were fierce on the field anywhere, but to remove traitors from their liege lord’s home? That was a whole new level of fierce rage.

* * *

Brynden chose to spend the night before the battle in Oberyn’s tent, they both needed to let off some steam. He very nearly made the offer for Hothor Umber to join them, but was beaten by a Wildling man nearly as broad as the Greatjon.

As he watched them go, he wondered if it might be something to suggest to Oberyn, his lover did have a taste for the exotic and exciting, as well as the pretty when looking for new partners. And they hadn’t invited a third to join them since the Heir to Highgarden a few years before.

Thinking on it, it was probably worth suggesting it when Winterfell was there’s. It would be an excellent celebration for the pair of them, especially since he knew that Ellaria had found a spear-wife who rather welcomed her attentions.

He passed Jon with that red-haired wildling of his, Tormund had his hand on Jon’s back and while there was no other contact between the two, he could see that Jon’s face was less broody than it had been before the scene with the Mormonts.

Good, maybe the lad wouldn’t have to have everything pointed out to him and would finally see what was obvious to everyone else.


	19. Jon

“Tormund would you,” Jon paused and took a deep breath to try and dislodge the word stuck in his throat, “Would you be a part of the group I’m sneaking into Winterfell?”

Tormund slung an arm over his shoulders and Jon relaxed into the hold almost unconsciously.

“I would have been offended if you hadn’t asked me, Pretty Crow. Who else would I trust to guard your back?”

He relaxed even further into the hold, the confirmation soothing his frayed nerves. He had not thought that Tormund would turn him down, but the reassurance was nice.

Jon turned his gaze upwards, so he was looking into the pale blue of Tormund’s eyes, eyes that contained an emotion that Jon could not identify. Could not allow himself to hope that it was what he thought it could be.

He was seized by the urge to kiss Tormund, but did not. Tormund held feelings for someone, even if it wasn’t Lady Alysane, and he would not get in the way of those feelings, not if they were strong enough for Tormund to consider marriage of all things.

He quirked his lips into a small smile instead and received a beam as bright as the sun in response.

“I won’t ever abandon you to battle alone, I am no craven, Pretty Crow.” Tormund murmured; his face close enough to Jon’s that he would barely have to move in order to brush their lips together.

It was heady and exciting, and Jon’s blood began to pound, but he dragged himself away slightly as a voice in his mind sounding suspiciously like Lady Catelyn reminded him of Tormund’s love for another.

“You cannot stay by my side forever,” He muttered, trying not to let his misery show, “I feel like your future wife would object to that.”

Tormund turned his face away and Jon could have sworn he heard Ygritte’s name, but that could not be right, why would Tormund mention Ygritte in response to Jon’s words?

“Why don’t you tell me about this plan of yours Pretty Crow? If I’m to keep you safe then I should know all the details you have kept quiet so far.”

Jon settled back, so he was leaning against Tormund’s warmth and began to explain his plan in a soft voice, savouring the closeness and company on the eve of battle.

* * *

“I have a gift for you Jon,” Sansa’s voice filtered in from the doorway of the tent they had all been sharing, “I had it brought from Riverrun for you.”

He turned as she gestured for two squires to bring a pile of metal pieces into the tent and lay them out.

Jon approached them and looked up questioningly as he saw that they were pieces of armour, decorated with engraved direwolves.

“Uncle Edmure said they had belonged to Robb; I think he would have liked it if you wear it now.” Her voice wavered only slightly and Jon crossed the tent in two longs strides to hug her closely.

She relaxed into it slightly and then stepped back, her spine as straight as possible, the only sign of her emotion being her wet eyes.

“Lewys can you help my brother put on his armour please?” She asked one of the squires who had remained, standing awkwardly at the tent entrance.

The squire hurried over as Sansa left the tent, and began to help Jon into the layers of silk and leather that went beneath the metal plating.

It fit well enough, perhaps a little too broad across the shoulders but nothing that would hinder movement.

When he caught a glimpse of himself in the sheet of polished metal that Sansa had for some reason in the middle of a military camp, his heart caught in his throat. He looked as he remembered his father doing before riding off to the Greyjoy rebellion. He knew he looked like Ned Stark, it was nearly always the first thing people said to him, but he had never truly seen it until that moment.

He stepped outside and arms were immediately thrown around his middle, he looked down to see Sansa hugging him tight with a lack of decorum that was uncommon in public.

“You look like father,” She half-whispered, something akin to a sob in her voice, “I’m pleased the armour fits you, it will soothe my fears a little to know that you are protected as much as possible.”

Jon looked at his little sister properly as she spoke, he could find little of the girl she had been under her poise and the layers of clothing that disguised her age. His heart clenched in pain at the loss of the child who had loved songs and pretty colours, the girl who now dressed solely in the colours of her House or her mother’s.

The only thing that seemed to remain of her love of the beautiful was the intricate embroidery on her gown, and yet even those were political; blue roses, waterlilies and asters, each one representing a kingdom she ruled over.

He resisted the urge to ruffle her hair, aware that not only would it not be appreciated but that he would likely be cut on the spikes of her crown.

“Thank you, Sansa.” He could not utter anything else, but he thought she understood what he was trying to say.

She smiled at him, the same smile she had used to shot at Robb and his heart softened, maybe she wasn’t quite so different from the sweet girl he had grown up with.

* * *

“Lord Bolton, get off your horse and bend the knee and I will be merciful.” Sansa’s voice was ice, cold enough that Jon had to suppress a shiver. “You have my word as a Stark.”

“Your word as a Stark? Ha! Your precious brother made that phrase lose any meaning it might have had.” Snow spat from his father’s side, “You are just a traitor like the rest of your family, albeit a pretty one.”

Jon stiffened as Snow leered at his sweet sister, on the other side of Sansa he could see that Brynden had done the same. If they weren’t meeting under the flag of parlay, he would have happily taken Ramsay Snow’s head for such an insult.

“It would behove you, Lord Bolton, to keep your rabid dog contained. Lest he embarrass you and your House further.” Sansa had not lowered her gaze from Bolton’s pale eyes to even glance at Snow.

The bastard opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but snapped it shut when his father spoke.

“Keep your mouth shut Ramsay. If you have nothing intelligent to say, then do not say anything.” Roose Bolton said, not even looking at his son. “Lady Sansa, this campaign of yours is foolish. Your offer even more so. As your family was so fond of saying, winter is coming, and your men will not be able to remain exposed for long. Abandon the North, return to the Riverlands and we shall not trouble you.”

“To trust the word of someone who would break guest right is folly,” Jon was surprised to find himself speaking up, “And I would thank you to address my sister by her proper title, Lord Bolton.”

A sneer was the traitor lord’s only response to his words, but it was the response Jon had expected. The man had all but scoffed when he saw him among the parlay party, likely would have had Sansa not spoken and drawn all attention to her.

Sansa spoke once again, a hint of impatience colouring her tone.

“I ask you again, Lord Bolton, bend the knee and I will show mercy. Bend the knee or the scouring of Castamere shall look as gentle as a mother’s touch.”

He could see a vicious grin overtake Lady Mormont’s face at Sansa’s words, a bloodthirsty expression cross Lord Umber’s, and a savage smile split Brynden’s. Each one of them were hardened warriors and in that moment it was obvious to all who beheld them.

“I will not bend the knee to a traitorous child.” Lord Bolton said, his voice as cold as Sansa’s, “The Stark’s have fallen and we will not rest beneath your bootheel once again.

The bastard started to giggle and finger at the his bow and Jon turned all his attention on him the family had already proven to be oath breakers and willing to break the scared concept of Guest Right, there was every chance that they would try to make an attempt on their lives to win the battle before it had begun.

Sansa stared at them for a long moment before turning her horse around without a word, Jon wheeled his to follow her, as did the others and they began to ride away without a word being spoken.

They waited until the Boltons were but specks on the horizon and they were definitely out of earshot before Jon dared to speak.

“Don’t worry Sansa, one day someone will take your offer of mercy.”

The lords began to snicker and a smile pulled at Sansa’s displeased expression, a smile he had aimed to get with his words. His sister looked far too tense these days.

* * *

The tunnels were just as Jon had remembered them; dark, damp, and yet surprisingly warm due to the hot springs around them.

The emotion he felt within them was different now though, instead of traipsing through them with father, or as part of a stupid dare with Robb, he was leading a band of men to attack the keep. He wondered what his father would have thought of that, whether he would be proud of his tactics, or ashamed at the underhand attack.

His siblings were there with him, or at least Arya and Rickon were, Shaggydog’s eyes Tully blue and Nymeria’s Stark grey indicating their presence there. And sometimes, if he turned at the right moment or the light reflected in a certain way, he could have sworn the blue of Robb’s eyes could be seen in Grey-Wind’s face.

It was reassuring in a way little else was, the knowledge that his siblings supported the betrayal of a closely kept Stark secret, one not told outside the family since the building of Winterfell.

The crypts were untouched when they emerged into them, dried roses still resting at the feet of his grandparent’s statues, a bough of pine at the foot of his Uncle Brandon’s, a feather still resting in the palm of Lyanna’s. Despite the multiple hands that Winterfell had passed through, the crypts still looked the way they had when he had left for the Wall, he could almost picture his father stood in front of the tombs of his family, or Robb and Theon daring each other to venture deeper towards the old tombs.

The split up into teams when inside the crypts, they could not stay as a group if they wanted to remain undetected, nor if they wanted the attack to go swiftly. Lady Alysane’s group was to take the gatehouse, Lord Hothor’s were to find the Bolton bastard, Ser Donnel’s to lock the main part of the Bolton forces in their own barracks. Jon and Tormund were the smallest team, with perhaps the most vital job, they were to find and bind Roose Bolton, to prevent a coherent defence and force a surrender.

It was easier to bind Bolton than they might have thought, he was in the rooms that had one been Jon’s father’s, rooms that Jon had often snuck into as a child in need of comfort after a nightmare. Lady Bolton had been in what was once Lady Catelyn’s rooms, and they merely blocked the door and posted a guard outside to keep her contained, she had no real power after all.

Roose Bolton had been asleep when they entered, his sword too far across the room for him to reach before they were upon him, his single dagger easily wrestled away.

They did not bother with rope, instead they ripped up the banners hung on the walls, binding Bolton with ragged strips of his family’s sigil, the knots tied tight enough to cut into the skin at his wrists.

Tormund held him down while Jon tied the bindings, working together to contain the commander before he could mount a defence against them.

When they were done the two of them just stared at each other, elation and adrenalin running through their veins. Bolton lay bound at their feet; his bastard was unconscious and hogtied, and soon Winterfell would be retaken once more. Jon knew he had to raise the banners to let the army know their plan had been a success and yet he could not drag his eyes from Tormund’s.

In a flurry of movement that nether could say who started it they were pressed together, lips locked and it felt so right, it felt like coming home. Jon could feel his knees start to buckle as Tormund’s hand cradled his head and-

His foot hit something and the pained grunt abruptly reminded him of where they were. He pulled back reluctantly, panting heavily.

“Oh.” Was all he could say, and he flushed as Tormund laughed kindly.

“Oh, indeed Pretty Crow. That can’t have come as a surprise to you?”

Jon looked away, the flush in his cheeks deepening. “I thought you had favour for another.” He managed to mumble.

“Ygritte was right, you really do know nothing.” Tormund shook his head, still smiling.

He reached out and cupped Jon’s cheek and pulled him into a gentle kiss, his other hand tangled in Jon’s hair and Jon let out a light moan as his curls were tugged and-

His enjoyment and the kiss was once again broken by a grunt from the floor.

He looked down only to see Roose Bolton glaring up at him with a glare fit to burn holes in stone.

“We, we should really raise that banner,” He managed to get out, unable to look away from Tormund’s reddened lips once he looked back.

“Aye, we should pretty crow.” Tormund sounded terribly sad at the thought of doing such a thing and Jon couldn’t blame him, he wanted little more than to kiss Tormund again, but his family were waiting for the signal to enter the keep and remove the last of the Bolton soldiers.

His family were waiting to come home.

He left the chamber, leaving Tormund to stand guard over the bound Bolton, carrying the banners to display over the gatehouse. Almost as soon as he entered the corridor Ghost was by his side and Grey-Wind at his back, their muzzles red with blood and gore.

The fires of their camp dotted the dark landscape visible from the gatehouse like the stars in the sky above, it was an awe-inspiring sight, that of so many people come to restore their home to them.

He raised the banners so that they hung proudly above the walls, illuminated by the light of a dozen torches. The signal was given and the gates creaked open as they had planned, Alysane Mormont and her companions having taken the gatehouse as soon as they left the crypts.

A clattering of armour and men who had been positioned ready for half the night began to swarm into the castle through the open gates, the resistance they met was half-hearted at best, the bulk of the Bolton men having been locked into the barracks.

* * *

They stood in the courtyard, side by side, in the same place his family had stood to greet King Robert nearly two years before. Tormund’s hand rested possessively on his lower back, just above the swell of his arse. If questioned he would probably say it was because Jon’s breastplate prevented his hand being any higher, but Jon knew it was because he was eager to show off his new claim.

A notion he had absolutely no problems with, and something he would quite eagerly show off himself, if his siblings weren’t about to ride through the gates of Winterfell.

They had discussed the display of pageantry previously, had decided it would be a good idea to show off the Stark’s returning to their ancestral home at last.

And what a display it was.

Standards held high with the direwolf proudly displayed marched ahead, followed by his siblings on horseback, their direwolves riding alongside.

Each one was dressed in the grey and white of their House, Arya and Rickon in inverted coloured tunics, and Sansa in a dress embroidered to look like a snowstorm. Heavy furs rested over their shoulders, and Jon’s heart clenched when he recognised Sansa and Arya’s as being in the style Robb had always worn.

The weak afternoon sunlight gleamed off of Sansa’s crown and for a moment Jon thought they could have been in one of the songs Sansa had loved so much, or a tale told by Old Nan.

The line of lords and knights following after them helped to compound that image. An image of the conquering heroes returning home.

Jon forced the bound Lord Bolton to the ground as his siblings dismounted, and by his side Hothor Umber did the same with Ramsay Snow. Their prisoners knelt in the mud and slurry of the courtyard; their defeat made obvious to all.

Jon inclined his head to Sansa as she approached him,

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has supported this story! 
> 
> Stay tuned for the second part 'A Circlet of Weirwood', which should have the first chapter uploaded soon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> If you would like to chat to me about my work find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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